Deal of a Lifetime
by cheride
Summary: An unexpected visit from an old acquaintance leaves Mark with some serious decisions to make.
1. Chapter 1

**_Deal of a Lifetime_**- _cheride_

_Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction for entertainment purposes only. The characters and concepts of Hardcastle & McCormick do not belong to me, but to their creators._

_Rating: K+

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**Author's Notes: **If you'll indulge me in just a moment of reminiscence, I'll tell you the tale of a story. Way back in the day, long before I'd even _heard_ the term fanfiction, I began writing this story. At the time, I just sort of thought I was a little bit crazy, and I'd put it away for months at a time until I just had to drag it out again and write a few more pages, and then I'd stick it back in a closet somewhere until it called to me again. Seriously, we're talking a period of _years_ here, folks. Then, in early 2004, I found the H&M Yahoo group, and started reading some of the old fic, and decided to finally finish my own little contribution to the lore. This is the piece that was finally completed. I posted it to the group site in February of that year, and it stayed there—and on a companion archive site—for a few months. Then, I was approached to have it included in an upcoming print 'zine, but in order to do that, it had to be pulled from the net. Well, it turns out that print publishing can be a long and arduous endeavor, so it was February of 2006 before it was finally released, long after I'd gotten myself firmly and happily ensconced in this world of fandom. In the intervening years, several people have offered notes for improvement: Mysti, the editor at Agent with Style, where it was eventually published; I think Susan Z. had a whack at it; and even L.M. Lewis offered a few comments many, many months ago. (Even she probably doesn't recall words I'll probably never forget: "It's a _fight_, for goodness sake. _Tersify_ it." Who wouldn't love a beta like that?)

So, anyway, this one's been around a while. The folks who have helped me since I wrote it have made me a better writer (I hope!), and there are things I'd do differently if I were to write this story today. But it still holds a place in my heart as my first, and especially for opening doors to a world that's made me a lot of friends and brought me a lot of joy. So thanks for listening to its tale, but I'll be a dear and shut up now.

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**Chapter 1**

"Hold it right there, McCormick!"

Mark McCormick stopped mid-stride as he heard the bellow of his name. He recognized the tone and knew immediately that he was on shaky ground. He turned casually to face the voice. "Morning, Judge," he began, "sleep well?"

Retired Superior Court Judge Milton C. Hardcastle ignored the question. "Where are you off to so early?"

"I have to run some errands. Remember, we talked about it yesterday…fertilizer for the roses, new leaf net for the pool, more popcorn for the nightly John Wayne film festival?" McCormick grinned slightly, but he had the feeling the judge wasn't buying the routine.

"At 7:30 in the morning?" Hardcastle asked. "I didn't think you even knew there _was_ a 7:30 in the morning."

McCormick felt his grin fading. Since being paroled into Hardcastle's custody over a year ago, he had learned a few things, most importantly, how to recognize the many moods of his custodian. Not that it had been easy. The man was constantly yelling and complaining about something—usually McCormick—and the insults could fly a mile a minute. Still, Mark had learned to understand that the judge simply handled his emotions a little differently than most people and didn't take much of it too seriously. Besides, he could certainly give as well as he got, and he had actually started to sort of enjoy the constant battles.

However, on occasion, there had been real anger lurking beneath the all too common outbursts, and learning to tell the difference had been a necessity. With smart mouth comments being almost his trademark, McCormick had unintentionally made a few touchy situations much worse. He still counted his blessings that Hardcastle hadn't shipped him right back to San Quentin. But that had been in the early days, before he'd learned how to recognize the tone, and when to keep his mouth shut. Right now seemed to be a perfect example of such a time.

"Actually, McCormick," Hardcastle continued, "about the only time I've ever known you to be so eager to get to your chores is when you had something to hide. Feeling guilty about something, kid?"

McCormick shook his head slowly, wondering why it hadn't occurred to him that Hardcastle had also spent the last year and a half learning how to read _him_. A guilty conscience _was_ the only thing that made him do his chores willingly. And, after so many months in Hardcastle's custody, it was also the only thing that could make him worry about being sent back to prison. But aloud, he said, "Of course not, Judge. What would I have to feel guilty about?"

"I don't know, but why don't we go inside and talk about it?"

McCormick cast a longing look at the Coyote, his red sports car, sitting in the drive. He had been so close to avoiding this conversation! He made one attempt to forestall the inevitable. "Okay, but couldn't it wait until..." He faded off as he saw Hardcastle's eyes harden. He sighed deeply. "You're the boss, Judge."

"I'm glad you remember that, McCormick," Hardcastle replied, as he motioned the other man forward into the house.

As they walked, McCormick reflected quickly on the fear rising within him. In the past eighteen months, he and Hardcastle had been in more tough spots than he liked to remember; they had relied on one another out of necessity, and had grown to trust one another more quickly than he would have imagined possible. They had also shared good times, and that was certainly more than he had ever imagined would happen.

He could still remember the words as the judge explained his idea for this unorthodox arrangement: _I'm not looking for us to be buddies. _And yet, somehow, that's exactly what they had become, though neither would readily admit to that. For the most part, McCormick had settled into a comfortable routine, surprisingly grateful for the stability and friendship that had come into his life, even if it had come from the most unexpected of sources. But through it all, he had never lost sight of the fact that it could come crashing to a halt at any moment; the power in this relationship rested with Hardcastle, and the quiet words of _let's talk about it inside_ didn't come close to hiding the fact that the jurist might seriously be considering exercising that power now.

Mark swallowed tightly as he led the way into the den. He jumped slightly as he heard the door slam behind Hardcastle; that was not a good sign. He turned slowly to face the older man, carefully keeping his expression neutral.

Hardcastle leaned against the desk, facing his young charge…searching his face, but there was nothing there. That was not a good sign. "I notice you had company last night, McCormick."

"Didn't know that was against the rules now, Hardcase." McCormick tried for his normal tone of banter, but he knew it fell far short.

"Anything you want to talk about, kid?"

McCormick shook his head. "This is your tea party, Judge."

Hardcastle tried again. "You know there are rules for your parole, kid; there are rules at this house."

"And except for the times you have me careening around the residential areas at about a hundred miles an hour chasing the bad guys, I think I've done a pretty good job sticking to them."

Hardcastle had to admit that was true. "Mostly," he agreed gruffly. "So what about last night?"

McCormick warred with himself internally. On the one hand, he really just wanted to get this over with; on the other, he wasn't sure how 'over' that would be, so... "I had a friend over, Judge. What's the problem?"

"I recognized him, McCormick."

McCormick laughed in spite of himself. "Give me a break, Hardcase, you think you know everyone. I mean, honestly, Judge, you should get over yourself just a little bit—"

"Ricky Lattimer," Hardcastle interrupted bluntly. He watched his…friend…closely; saw McCormick's mouth snap shut, his eyes close briefly. And when the eyes reopened, the judge saw only fear. He steeled himself against his own fear, suddenly afraid that he had been more right about this situation than he wanted to admit. Then, after just a moment, he watched as McCormick took a deep breath and deliberately banished the fear. The young man calmed himself and sank into the nearest chair. When he finally looked up at Hardcastle, the only thing remaining in the crystal blue eyes was the unspoken trust that had carried them through the past year and a half.

"Honest to God, Judge, there's nothing going on. He's just a friend of mine. I only kept it from you because I didn't want you wiggin' out on me. I know he shouldn't have been here, and I know I should have told you the truth from the beginning. And I'm sorry." After his rush of words, McCormick sat silently, waiting for Hardcastle's response.

The judge examined the young man closely again, alert for any sign of deceit, and was relieved when he found none. Feeling back on more familiar ground now, Hardcastle's temper finally fully exploded. "What in the hell were you thinking, McCormick?" he yelled. "I know you don't believe it, but I try to be as lenient as I possibly can, but, dammit, there has to be a line somewhere, and you just blew right past it!"

"I know, Judge, I just—"

"You what?" Hardcastle demanded, breaking off whatever explanation McCormick had been about to offer.

"Wasn't thinking," McCormick finished lamely, his volume a stark contrast to the judge's.

Hardcastle snorted. "That's an understatement."

"Judge," McCormick began again, "he's just a friend. He—"

"No," Hardcastle contradicted angrily, "he is _not_ just a friend. 'Known felon' is the term you're searching for, McCormick. That's the phrase that could get you sent back to the house of many doors. What was he doing here, anyway?"

For a long moment, Mark couldn't answer. Even though he had managed to fight down the near panic that had been brewing inside of him, he hadn't managed to shake the lingering idea—however guilt-induced it may have been—that this conversation was going to end with him cuffed and in the back seat of a squad car. Hardcastle had certainly made that threat before; and while he had mostly learned to chalk it all up to the typical Hardcastle bluster, sometimes McCormick thought the old man took some kind of perverse pleasure in tapping into his deepest fear. But, as with so many things with the judge, it wasn't _what_ he said that mattered, it was _how_ he said it. And this reference to his return to prison was positively benign. He almost laughed with relief when he realized that he was still on fairly solid ground and the judge didn't intend to send him away just yet. Of course, he hadn't answered the last question yet, either.

As if reading his mind, Hardcastle repeated, "What was he doing here? And how long have you guys been hanging out?"

McCormick chose to answer in reverse order. "We don't 'hang out,' Judge. This is the first time I've seen him in years. He was released about a year before my parole; I haven't seen him since he walked out the gates."

"So why last night?"

McCormick shook his head slightly. Could the man not let anything go? He took a deep breath. "He needed a favor."

Based on the expression on Hardcastle's face, Mark immediately thought he might have relaxed too soon over the whole prison idea. "What kind of favor, McCormick?"

"Don't worry about it, Judge. I told him no."

"You let _me_ decide what to worry about. What kind of favor?" Hardcastle insisted.

McCormick relented. "He wanted me to…" he chose his words carefully, "retrieve some property for him." He saw the judge's eyebrows arch suspiciously and hurried on, "But like I said, I told him no. We had a few drinks and he left. It's over."

Hardcastle wasn't buying it. "Don't you find it a little strange that he would just show up out of the blue and make this request? I mean, there are countless numbers of people who could 'retrieve property' for him."

"That's what I told him. Apparently, there's some kind of power play going on. Someone's trying to push him out and it's making him paranoid. He said he needed someone out of the game, someone uninvolved. But he understood when I told him I wasn't interested."

"Did he really?" Hardcastle growled, not completely convinced.

"Yes, Judge, he did," McCormick replied, exasperated. Feeling more confident that the judge wasn't angry enough to resort to incarceration, his own temper was threatening to get the better of him. "What is your problem, anyway? I wasn't doing anything wrong!"

When Hardcastle didn't answer immediately, McCormick felt his face flush as he realized what he had said. "Okay," he amended quickly, "so it was sort of wrong—"

"Illegal," Hardcastle interrupted coldly.

"Right. Illegal—"

"Parole violation," he interrupted again.

"Right," McCormick agreed. "But—"

"I can't take care of you forever, you know, McCormick."

"I don't need you to take care of me!" McCormick finally yelled. "I just need you to trust me!"

Again it took a moment for the ring of his words to sink in. "Judge…. I'm sorry." His tone was immediately as contrite as his words. "I didn't mean to say that. I appreciate what you've done for me, you know that. I just…"

"Forget it, McCormick. I was just a little worried about you, that's all."

Mark closed his eyes briefly. God, now he had hurt Hardcastle's feelings. Damn his big mouth, anyway. He opened his eyes and flashed a huge grin at the judge. "But at least you're never bored with me around, right?" When all else failed, resort to the comedy.

Hardcastle stared at him for a moment, then laughed slightly, letting his friend know he was off the hook. "Right, kiddo, it's never boring."

When the judge rounded his desk and started going through the mail, McCormick finally relaxed for the first time that morning. He sank back into his chair and closed his eyes again. After several moments, he spoke again, almost shyly, eyes still closed. "Judge?"

"Mm?" Hardcase was already engrossed in something else.

"Thanks."

Hardcastle glanced up at the simple word, and saw the sleep settle onto McCormick's face. As he watched the even breathing, it occurred to him—with just a touch of guilt—that McCormick probably hadn't slept well the night before and that he had gotten up early simply to get away from the estate and avoid a scene. It seemed incomprehensible now that half an hour ago Hardcastle was prepared to believe his young friend was sneaking off to some type of extra-legal rendezvous. He shook his head and reminded himself that McCormick was a good kid. Impulsive and smart-mouthed to be sure, but still a good kid. He smiled gently and turned his attention back to the mail.

00000 

It had been almost an hour since McCormick had drifted off to sleep in the armchair. Hardcastle had briefly considered waking him to move to one of the spare rooms, but had ultimately decided it wasn't necessary. Honestly, the kid could sleep anywhere. Hardcastle had spent the time catching up on the mail, and was now reading leisurely through his morning paper. If nothing else, at least he was getting first dibs on that today. He hated it when McCormick read it first; it got the pages all messed up, not nice and crisp like he liked it. He was so involved in the uncharacteristically relaxed moment that he was completely unaware of anything out of the ordinary until the three armed men burst into the den.

Hardcastle immediately grabbed for his desk drawer, hoping to get to his .45 quickly enough, but one of the gunmen was already there. McCormick had jumped to his feet when he heard the doors burst open. His eyes fully focused just in time to see the assailant pulling Hardcastle roughly away from the desk and then the backhanded slap that told the judge to stay still.

McCormick lunged across the room, his only thought to get the guy off of Hardcastle, but a second gunman was close by to prevent just that action. McCormick felt the hard fist to his stomach before he even completely realized what was happening. As he doubled over and stumbled back toward his chair, he grabbed his assailant by the shirt and flung him aside. With that obstacle out of the way, at least momentarily, McCormick continued his path back to the judge, but his attacker grabbed him from behind before he took two steps. He collapsed to the floor, and saw that Hardcastle had been immobilized. The goon was rapidly tying the judge's hands behind his back. What in the hell was going on?

McCormick returned his full attention to his own attacker. His arm was being twisted into an unnatural position behind him. McCormick arched his back suddenly to throw his attacker off, rolled over to grab the guy before he could regain his balance, and then flipped the man over his head. There was a satisfying thud as the goon landed hard on his back on the wooden floor, but McCormick's thoughts immediately turned back to the judge. As he was pushing himself off the floor, a single gunshot rang out through the small room, stopping him completely. And stopping his heart. He glanced immediately across the room, relieved to see that Hardcastle was still alive.

"I think that's enough, Mark," said a voice from the doorway.

McCormick swiveled quickly to face the voice, then slowly leaned back on his heels as his brain finally registered. "Ricky! What in the hell are you doing?"

Lattimer unhurriedly walked down the two small steps into the room and motioned McCormick back toward his chair. "Sit down, Mark," he said congenially.

McCormick stood up carefully and seated himself as instructed. He glanced across the room again. "You okay, Judge?"

"I'm fine," Hardcastle responded bitterly. His attacker was standing beside him, hand resting on his prisoner's shoulder almost companionably. Only the gun barrel pressed against the judge's temple destroyed the image. "Lattimer, you want to tell me exactly what's going on here?"

Lattimer didn't respond until his second henchman had taken up a similar position behind McCormick, then he turned to face the judge. "I've come to make a business proposition to your friend," he said, jerking his head toward McCormick.

"I understood that you had concluded your business discussions last night," Hardcastle answered.

"Yes, I'm sure that was Mark's view of things. I, on the other hand, wasn't quite ready to give up on the partnership."

"Ricky," McCormick finally interrupted, "this is crazy. I told you last night I couldn't help you out. There's a million other guys who would be more than willing to do your job. Hell, I'll find you one myself."

"I can't trust a million other guys, Mark."

"Well, I hate to break it to you, but you can't trust me, either."

"Oh, but I think I can," Lattimer contradicted. "Last night I was unprepared to make you a reasonable offer for your services, but that's not true today."

"This isn't about money, Ricky," McCormick began.

"No, it isn't, at least not for you. You always seem to be able to stay above the fray, Mark, unburdened by the petty concerns of the crowd. It's one of the things I've always liked about you. It's why I came to you for help."

"I'm flattered," McCormick drawled, "but I still can't help you." He never even saw the backhand that caught the left side of his face.

"That's the wrong answer, Mark," Lattimer sneered as he watched McCormick force the tension to leave his body and then settle back into his seat. They both knew that leaving that chair was not an option if McCormick wanted to keep breathing. "But, of course," he continued, regaining his genial attitude, "that's probably because you haven't heard my new offer yet."

"It doesn't matter what it is," Hardcastle shot from across the room, "he's not going to do it."

"So what's the deal?" McCormick asked as if Hardcastle had never spoken. He could feel the daggers from the judge's eyes, but he could deal with that later.

"Oh, it's the deal of a lifetime, Mark," Lattimer replied gregariously. "You're going to love it." He continued on, "You know, I really enjoyed our visit last night. Catching up on old times, reminiscing. It was great."

"Yeah, old home week. What's the point?"

"I think the thing I liked best, though, was the touching story about how Judge Hardcastle has really turned your life around; gave you opportunities you wouldn't have gotten otherwise."

McCormick kept his eyes steadfastly away from Hardcastle's. He wasn't sure whether to be embarrassed that Lattimer was revealing their conversation, or terrified because he was beginning to have a horrible feeling where this was leading. He decided it was actually possible to feel both. When he spoke, though, he willed his voice not to give away his feelings. "Like I said, Ricky, what's the point?"

Lattimer crossed the room quickly. Grabbing Hardcastle's hair and pulling his head back roughly, he had the gun buried under the judge's chin in less than two seconds. "The point, Mark, is that I think you would do anything to keep this man alive."

"He won't break the law," Hardcastle managed through gritted teeth, but his only reward for his effort was having the gun pushed harder against his chin, which only served to push his head further back. At this rate, he figured it was a toss up whether his jaw or his neck would break first.

"Stop it!" McCormick cried, straining more against himself than the arm that had coiled around his own neck. These were lousy odds, and he knew it; this was not the time to try to be a hero. He might actually manage to escape somehow, but Hardcastle would be a sitting duck. His mind raced through at least fifty different scenarios, but none of them ended well. He knew then that he had only one way out.

Lattimer watched the anguish play across the young man's face, and, after a moment, he knew that he had won. He released his hold on Hardcastle and returned to stand in front of McCormick's chair. "So you accept my offer?"

McCormick nodded wordlessly, still not meeting Hardcastle's eyes. "What do you need me to do?"

"I told you, Mark, there's a car—the munitions are already stashed inside—and there are files with my name on them. That's what I need. Here's the name, address and description of the car." He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and stuffed it into McCormick's.

McCormick was vaguely aware that someone else was speaking to him. He focused his attention and realized it was the judge.

"McCormick, you cannot do this," Hardcastle was saying earnestly. "Listen, kid, you should know this drill almost as well as I do. Either this is a bluff and he's not going to kill me at all, or he's going to kill me either way. The point is, McCormick, what you do isn't going to change the outcome in either direction. I will not have you throw your life away for this."

McCormick did look at his friend then, and allowed himself a small smile. "Sorry, Judge, but for right now… you're not the boss anymore."

McCormick turned his attention back to Lattimer. "I need the details," he said dully.

"I need delivery by tomorrow, six o'clock. Not a lot of time, I know, but I have complete confidence in you. I'll call here tomorrow at 5:15 to arrange the meet. You get me what I need and you'll get your judge back safe and sound."

"I'm going to want to talk to him tonight," McCormick said, functioning almost on autopilot. "And tomorrow, when we arrange the meet."

"Fair enough," Lattimer agreed. "Same time tonight, then."

"If you hurt him, I'll kill you." The words were softly spoken, not a threat but simply a statement.

"Also fair enough," Lattimer replied. "I think you will find I am a man of my word." He motioned to his man across the room. "I think it's time we take our leave of Mr. McCormick."

McCormick watched as the goon pulled a roll of duct tape out of his jacket. The first strip went over the judge's mouth. McCormick didn't like the image, but he had to admit he also didn't want Hardcastle lecturing him again before they got him out of here. This was hard enough as it was. Then he watched as the tape was rolled around Hardcastle's wrists, serving as a much more efficient binding than the ropes alone. He could feel the tears of anger and frustration welling up in his eyes, but he couldn't look away. What if this was the last time he saw him? The thought was almost unbearable. Finally, the gunman pulled a long stretch of cloth from his pocket, clearly intended as a blindfold.

"Wait!" McCormick cried, almost bolting from his chair, but the arm tightened around his neck and brought him back down. He heard the hammer on the gun behind him pull back, but he ignored it. He forced his gaze away from Hardcastle and let his eyes meet Lattimer's. "Please, Ricky, just a couple of seconds."

Lattimer looked at him for a moment, realizing that he hadn't exactly been lying before; he really had always liked this kid. Finally he spoke. "You know I'll kill you both…him first?"

McCormick nodded silently.

"Okay, let him up."

McCormick was certain the attacker holding him didn't agree with the decision, but he did as he was told. McCormick rose from his chair and crossed the room, moving with deliberate and exaggerated slowness. First of all, it kept the trigger fingers relaxed when they knew he wasn't trying anything stupid. And secondly, the longer it took for him to cross this small room the longer he would be able to keep Hardcastle here with him, even if it only meant a few more seconds.

He reached the judge's chair by the desk and knelt on the floor to look directly into his eyes. He raised his hands—still slowly and deliberately—and squeezed his friend's arms. Again he could feel the tears burning his eyes, but he blinked them away.

"God, Judge, I am so sorry." He searched his friend's eyes, taking some small comfort from the forgiveness he had known he would find there. Never letting his eyes waver, he continued, "I'm going to get you out of this. I promise." He forced a small laugh when he saw the brief flash of anger. "What? Surely you didn't think I was a hundred percent rehabilitated, did you?" He didn't speak again until he saw the eyes answer with a tiny flicker of amusement. "Okay, look—"

Lattimer spoke finally. "Mark..."

McCormick tightened his grip on the other's arms. "They're going to take you now, Judge, but you'll be home tomorrow night."

Hardcastle just nodded.

McCormick saw the cloth lying on the desk. "They're going to blindfold you, too."

Hardcastle grunted, and jerked his head toward McCormick.

"What?"

Again the grunts and the jerk of the head. This time Mark understood. "Me?"

Hardcastle nodded.

Still never averting his eyes, McCormick spoke to the man behind him. "Ricky, he wants me..."

"Go ahead."

McCormick reached over and grabbed the blindfold. He really didn't want to do this, didn't want to have a part in removing any amount of freedom from this man, but he understood the request. He made sure that his face was filling Hardcastle's line of sight before he placed the cloth over his eyes. He smiled gently just as he tied the cloth in place. "Tomorrow night, Judge. I promise."

McCormick gripped the arms one last time, then raised his hands slightly as he got back on his feet and took one step away from Hardcastle.

"Back in your chair now, Mark," Lattimer directed, and McCormick did as he was told.

After McCormick was seated, Lattimer took up the position behind him, and the other two men led Hardcastle out of the house. Again Mark fought down the urge to try and stop them, and forced himself to watch calmly as the armed gunmen guided his best friend out of sight. After a few minutes, he heard their vehicle start up. That would mean they had gotten Hardcastle safely stashed in the trunk. He shivered at the sight in his mind's eye.

"Well, Mark," Lattimer said from behind him, "that's my cue. Oh, and by the way, I don't think I have to tell you..."

McCormick glanced behind him. "No, you don't have to tell me. I won't follow you, and no cops."

"Good." Lattimer pulled the hammer back on his gun as he slowly released McCormick and moved toward the doorway. He needn't have worried; McCormick wasn't going to risk the judge's life at this point. But as he climbed the steps and reached the double doors, McCormick called him back.

"Ricky?"

Lattimer paused momentarily. "What is it?"

"You promise you'll let him go?"

Such a simple question; he really did like this kid. "Yeah, Mark. That's the deal."

McCormick nodded and watched Lattimer disappear out the door.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

He sat in the den, unmoving, for almost an hour. The fear gripping his heart was palpable. He had been surprised to realize that this was worse than earlier when he had been convinced the judge was going to send him back to Quentin. He had thought prison was his deepest fear. Of course, he didn't really have to worry about himself on this occasion… he was not going to get caught.

Finally, he pulled out the paper that Lattimer had stuck in his pocket. He checked the address; the name hadn't really been necessary. Lattimer had told him last night that Louis Pedane was the other party involved in this 'transaction,' and even if Mark had been willing to risk the wrath of Hardcastle—Lattimer was offering a nice chunk of change—he would not have gotten involved in ripping off the head of a major crime cartel. But the circumstances were different now.

He rose slowly from his chair to cross the room, and stood for a moment, contemplating the handgun still waiting in Hardcastle's desk. He decided that wasn't necessary yet, though he wasn't kidding himself. He knew he would have to pick up the weapon eventually, but he would deal with that demon when the time came. He shook his head roughly, banishing the thoughts, and started toward the front door.

"Dammit!" he muttered when he'd exited the house, frustrated to find two flat tires each on both the Coyote and the pickup. Clearly, Lattimer had not wanted to trust that McCormick would not go storming down the drive chasing after his friend. Of course, no doubt the Corvette, safely secured in the garage, was untouched, but that hardly mattered at this point. Thankfully, the tires had only been deflated, not slashed (just how long had Ricky and his friends been prowling around out here?), so McCormick just went to the garage, grabbed the air compressor, and began the tedious process of inflating them again.

With that task completed, he opted for driving the truck into town. He knew he would be driving by the Pedane residence before this day was over, and the pickup didn't draw quite as much attention as the Coyote. And he did still have errands to run.

As he maneuvered through traffic, he forced himself to focus on the actual task of driving. Normally, of course, handling any automobile was second nature to McCormick, but he had almost rear-ended a station wagon at a stoplight before he realized that there was a difference between being comfortable and being in a trance, so he pulled himself out of the worst-case scenarios that were filling his mind. Besides, the whole point of these stupid errands was to figure out if anyone was following him.

By the time he completed his stops at the supermarket, garden supply and pool store, he was reasonably sure that no one was watching, and he pointed the pickup in the direction of Pedane's house. The place was a bit more off the beaten path than his errands, so if he had missed anyone, a tail would be easier to spot now.

He slowed slightly in front of the house, taking in the six-foot brick wall, the black wrought iron gate, the house set well back from the road, and the open expanse of rolling green lawn he would be forced to traverse. Did no one believe in full, lush landscaping anymore? As he was pulling away, he could barely make out the detached garage, situated behind the main house. This was not going to be easy.

"Should have taken the money," he grumbled under his breath. "I'm sure going to be earning it."

Finally, content that he was not being followed, he headed downtown toward the one place he could not afford to be seen. It had been several hours of all sorts of errands without spotting anything resembling a tail, but McCormick was still checking mirrors as he pulled into the parking lot at the police station. He surveyed his surroundings one last time before exiting the truck, then walked purposefully toward the building.

He headed immediately to the one office where he might find help, hopefully without too many questions, and knocked on the door.

"Come in," a voice answered from the other side.

Mark closed the door behind him. "Hey, Frank," he greeted the officer.

Frank Harper looked up, not surprised to see McCormick in his office, but a bit surprised to see him alone. "Hey, Mark. Where's Milt?"

"Oh, you know how he is," McCormick replied lightly, "just can't tear him away from his Lone Ranger comic books."

Harper laughed. "Yeah, right. What's up?"

"The judge asked me to come by and see if you could help us out with some information. He's got some bee in his bonnet about Louis Pedane and wondered if you had any surveillance information on him. You know, daily habits, when he and his staff come and go, that sort of thing."

Harper looked at the younger man sharply. "You guys shouldn't be messing around with Louis Pedane," he replied firmly.

"Hey, Lieutenant, you don't have to tell me that. I'm just the errand boy around here. You want to tell him this guy's too dangerous, you go right ahead, but I have to live with him."

Harper examined McCormick more closely. The words coming from the young man were certainly typical of his sarcastic nature, but something about his demeanor didn't fit, and the lieutenant was suddenly convinced that something wasn't right about this picture. "Why do you guys need surveillance information?" he asked, stalling for time.

"I'm not sure yet," McCormick said, shaking his head. "But the judge figured you guys kept pretty close tabs on the guy, so he thought you could help out."

"Yeah, we do," Harper agreed slowly, "but I'm not sure I can release it to you. Hell, half the stuff I give you guys I probably shouldn't give to Milt, but…"

McCormick grinned, hoping to put the officer's mind at ease. "But no one can say no to the Lone Ranger, right? Look," he continued, "the only reason Hardcase didn't come is because he's got his nose buried in some file down in the basement, muttering to himself again. He sent me out with a list of chores, and this one was on it. Could you just help me out here, Frank? You know the grief I'm gonna get if I go back empty-handed."

"It's really not like Hardcastle not to at least call," Harper responded, still uneasy with the whole situation. "Maybe I should just call and talk to him?"

"Go ahead," McCormick said. "Maybe it will save me a trip." He leaned against the door casually as Harper dialed the phone. He looked up quizzically when the officer hung up a moment later without speaking. "What's up?" he asked, and he could suddenly hear Hardcastle's voice ringing in his ears, marveling at his powers of deception. _Shut up_, he hissed in his mind. He felt bad enough lying to Frank without a nagging judge for a conscience.

"I got the machine," Harper answered. "I thought Milt was at home?"

"He is. Of course, he does get a little spoiled with having his personal slave around constantly. Maybe his majesty just didn't feel like picking up."

Harper shook his head firmly and rose from behind his desk. "I'm not buying it, Mark. What's going on?"

"What do you mean?" McCormick asked innocently. "I told you, the judge just wants some information for a case."

"I don't believe you," Harper said bluntly. "Tell me what's really going on."

McCormick sighed deeply. _I must be losing my touch. _"All right, Frank. Hardcastle didn't exactly send me here, but he does need the information, okay? I know you have what I need, so if you could just help me out, I'll have the judge call you later and thank you."

"I need more information than that, McCormick."

"Okay, just forget it, then," McCormick replied in resignation. "Thanks, anyway." He turned to go, but Harper's voice stopped him.

"You know, Mark, maybe you should stick around for a while until I can talk to Milt."

McCormick's hand froze on the doorknob as he heard the threat implied in the quiet words. "I could do that," he said slowly, not turning, "but it isn't necessary."

Harper moved around his desk and propped his hip on the front corner. "Why don't you come sit down?" he asked, gesturing to a chair just in front of him. He waited until Mark had complied, then continued. "Now, let me ask again…what is going on?"

McCormick met his eyes. "I told you, the judge needs some information. That's all."

"No, Mark, that isn't all. Is this really even for Milt?"

"Yes," McCormick insisted, "what do you think?"

"I think a lot of things, Mark," Harper replied. "I think Hardcastle rides you pretty hard sometimes. I think you get pretty pissed off sometimes. And I think it hasn't been that long since the last time he had you picked up by an APB."

"You think this is some kind of revenge?" McCormick was incredulous.

"I think something similar is very possible," Harper answered evenly.

"Even Hardcase doesn't think I would do something like that!" Mark exclaimed. "At least," he added quickly, "I don't think he does."

"Maybe it's been too long since he's been a cop," Harper suggested.

McCormick looked at Harper sharply. "What?"

"I said—"

"I heard what you said," McCormick interrupted angrily. "It's just that I thought you were supposed to be his friend? Jeez, Frank, as many cases as he's helped you solve, you could say something like that? He could work circles around most of the guys in this department, probably including you, and you make a crack like that?

"Just forget I was ever here," McCormick went on as he rose from his chair, "I didn't mean to bother you. And I'll try to keep the judge from bothering you anymore, too. Just go to hell, Frank." He turned away angrily and had reached the door before Harper's words stopped him again.

"Aren't you forgetting something, McCormick?"

He pounded his fist against the still closed door. Dammit, he could not afford to be officially detained right now! "What?" he demanded, forcing himself to turn back to the lieutenant. He was surprised to see the officer smiling.

"Your report," Harper answered lightly. "I'll call down and have the information printed out for you. You can pick it up on your way out." He picked up the phone and had a brief conversation, then returned his attention to McCormick. "Should be ready in just a few minutes."

McCormick was still staring at him. "A test?" he asked, disbelieving.

"Of course. I still don't know what's going on, Mark, but I had to make sure it wasn't going to cause Milt any trouble. He is a friend of mine, you know."

McCormick grinned sheepishly at the last comment. "Yeah, Frank, I know." He paused, then continued, "I'm sorry I blew up at you like that."

"Don't be," Harper replied. "It's the kind of response I was looking for."

McCormick shook his head in wonder. "I gotta tell you, Frank, after the day I've already had today, you just about pushed me over the edge. But thanks for the information. I'll make sure the judge calls you as soon as possible."

Harper's expression grew serious as he looked at the younger man. "You'll be careful?"

McCormick nodded his agreement.

"And," Harper went on, "if you need any help, you call me. Either of you."

McCormick smiled slightly. "We will, thanks." He waved and closed the door behind him. He sagged against the other side of the door for just a moment, grateful to be out of the office…and out from under Harper's too knowing gaze. He breathed a sigh of relief and started across the squad room.

As he walked toward the exit, he remembered Harper's final words. _Either of_ _you. _Then he heard Hardcastle's voice again. _Have to trust the system, kid. _He hesitated a moment, then turned around quickly before he could change his mind.

McCormick reentered Harper's office without knocking, closed the door, then stood there silently, not really sure how to begin. Harper simply watched him, knowing the kid was arguing with himself, and hoping the fact that he was standing on this side of the door was a good sign.

"Can I level with you?" McCormick finally asked.

"I wish you would."

McCormick crossed the office and sank back into the chair in front of Harper. "But first, I need you to promise that this is just between you and me." He saw the lieutenant hesitate, and then realized he should clarify. "I don't mean keep it from Hardcastle; I mean, no other cops." That was somehow an easier promise to make, and Harper readily agreed.

Mark closed his eyes briefly, trying to determine exactly what to say and how to say it, then quickly realized there wasn't an easy way. He opened his eyes and blurted, "Hardcastle's been kidnapped."

Harper looked at him sharply, first thinking—hoping—that this was McCormick's idea of payback for his earlier 'test.' The fear in the kid's eyes convinced him instantly that this was not a joke. He reached immediately for the phone. "I'll dispatch some units."

McCormick was on his feet. "No!" he yelled, swiping the phone off the desk before the first digit had been dialed. "You promised! No one else."

Harper had also risen from his seat and now stood glowering across the desk at the ex-con. "That was before I knew what was going on!" he yelled back. "You should have told me right away. Don't you know that every passing minute reduces the odds of finding him alive?" Harper turned his attention to retrieving his discarded phone, but McCormick's next words stopped him cold.

"He's still alive, Lieutenant."

Harper rose, placing the phone on his desk, but no longer intent on placing an immediate call. "There's already been a ransom?" he demanded.

"Sort of," McCormick answered. It occurred to him then that this had been a stupid idea. What had he been thinking? He had been lucky to leave the office the first time; he didn't believe his luck would hold again. He dropped back into the chair. "Maybe I should start at the beginning."

"I think that would be a really good idea," Harper agreed, sinking into his own chair. He sat silently, listening intently to McCormick's recitation of the day's events. It didn't escape his attention that there were some notable omissions—primarily names and targets—but he could deal with that later. After hearing the complete story, Harper began the questions McCormick had been dreading. "So, what is it these people want?"

McCormick shook his head. "The specifics don't matter, Frank. It's something they shouldn't have and something I definitely shouldn't be giving them, but that's a problem for later. Right now, the only thing that matters is getting the judge back, and I know how to do that."

"And how does Pedane figure into all this?"

"He doesn't, really; just a minor character. I thought I might be able to get a lead on where they're keeping Hardcastle. But, like the other stuff, that's secondary. There's a surefire way to end this thing, and I intend to end it."

"And who is it that's behind all this?"

"Lieutenant, it doesn't matter. Like I said—"

Harper slammed his desktop. "Enough! You're jerking me around with all this double-talk, and it's going to stop. You've got information I need, and I need it now. Tell me what I want to know!"

McCormick leaned forward and buried his face in his hands. God, would this day never end? His muffled voice was racked with pain. "Frank, I promised him I'd bring him home. Please let me keep my promise." He raised his head to meet Harper's eyes. "Please? You know I would tell you anything you want to know, except then you'd be forced to try and stop me. I can't let that happen right now. Or you'd try to mount some kind of investigation or rescue attempt and you could end up getting him killed.

"You know, Lieutenant, I came here today to get some basic information. I should have left it at that." McCormick gave a short, bitter laugh. "But I'm wandering around here with some kind of tape recorder in my head playing Milton C. Hardcastle's greatest hits, and he made me come back in here and talk to you; made me believe you could help me. It's bad enough that he runs my life when he's actually around, but to think he might not be around to run it… I mean…to think he runs it when he's not around anymore… I mean..." McCormick broke off, choking back the sob he could feel forcing its way from his throat. He looked away from Harper and took a deep breath. "Let me keep my promise, Frank," he said quietly.

Harper moved quickly around the desk and dropped into the chair next to McCormick, drawing the young man's attention back from his private hell. "We'll get him back, Mark," he said sincerely. He quickly considered his available options, then spoke decisively. "What is it you want me to do?"

McCormick looked at him suspiciously. "Really?"

In spite of the tension, Harper laughed at the response. "Yes, really. You know, I thought we had established that he's my friend, too. Besides, you keep talking about me trying to stop you, and it occurs to me that might not be an easy thing to do."

McCormick smiled slightly. "No, it might not, at that. But I'm glad we won't have to find out. As for what I want you to do, obviously, the first is not to follow me while I take care of my part of the bargain."

Harper nodded. "Agreed. Of course, that means I end up taking some of your grief when he gets home, you know?"

"So I'll owe you double." Mark flashed a genuine grin then, and understood that his 'tape recorder' had been correct after all; this was the right thing to do. "What I really need, though, is help with the exchange. I don't intend to let these guys get away with this. First of all, it wouldn't be safe for the judge to have them still on the streets. And, secondly, it wouldn't be safe for _me_ if they get away with offending Hardcase's particular sense of justice."

"Yeah," Harper laughed, "I can see where that would be a problem. So, when and where?"

"Well, that's part of the problem. I can tell you when — tomorrow evening at six— but I can't tell you where yet. They're calling tomorrow at 5:15 to give me the details. So, I guess tomorrow evening I might need someone to follow me, just in case there's an unscheduled change. I'll be delivering a car, so I won't be in the Coyote."

"Okay, we can certainly handle that. Also, before you leave here, I want to get you a radio so you can stay in touch with me. That way, we won' t have to worry about whether they have the phone wired. As soon as you hear from them tomorrow, contact me and I'll have people put in place."

McCormick nodded. "Yeah, that'll be great. They're calling tonight, too, so I can talk to the judge. I'll let you know how it goes and if anything has changed." He hesitated briefly before continuing. "In the meantime, you might want to get some pictures of Ricky Lattimer copied off so your men can have them tomorrow. They should know who they're out to apprehend."

Harper smiled slightly, and thought briefly that Hardcastle had definitely chosen well this time around. "I'll do that. Thanks."

McCormick glanced at his watch; it was already after three. He looked up hesitantly. "I don't think there's anything else, Lieutenant. Is there anything else you need, or can I go?"

"You're not a prisoner here, Mark," Harper replied gently. "I'll call downstairs and have the sergeant issue you a radio at the same time you pick up the Pedane file. We'll use channel eighteen."

McCormick rose slowly, still halfway expecting the lieutenant to change his mind. "Okay, Frank. I'll give you a radio check when I get to the car." He started for the door, and when he realized he truly was going to be allowed to leave, he glanced behind him. "Thanks for the help, Frank." He slipped out the door quickly, suddenly very grateful for the path Hardcastle had made available in his life.

00000

As McCormick stood waiting for the elevator, he worked out his game plan for the remainder of the day. He knew he would drive by Pedane's house again, not because he really expected to learn anything from it, but just because it would make him feel better. He would pick up a pizza on the way home (he would have to remember to point out to Hardcastle that this kidnapping was the only thing that would ever keep him from eating all day), and, after he spoke with the judge, he would spend the evening reading over whatever information Frank was providing on Pedane's residence. Then he would turn in early so he would be sure to be rested for tomorrow. It was a good plan; even Hardcase would be proud.

A small smile played across his face at his last thought. Yes, he thought, the judge would be proud of the way he was handling this whole situation. Hardcastle would never have expected him to go to Frank. Probably thought he would just run off half-cocked to do the job and end up getting busted or something. And the most amazing thing was that not all that long ago, he would have been right.

Whatever small moment of comfort McCormick might have been enjoying ended as soon as the elevator doors slid open. The downward car held only one occupant, but it was quite possibly the very last person he wanted to see right now. He had turned toward the stairwell when he felt a hand grab his elbow roughly and propel him quickly toward the doorway.

"Avoiding me, McCormick?" a voice growled as the stairway door clunked closed behind them.

McCormick shook his head in disbelief as the detective hustled him down the first flight of stairs, then jerked him to a halt on the landing between floors. Honestly, something had to start going his way soon. He steeled himself for whatever was coming next.

"Face the wall," the detective ordered.

"What?"

"I said, face the wall." Though the detective repeated the directive, he had spun Mark around and pressed his face to the wall before the words were out of his mouth.

"What is your problem, Richter?" McCormick demanded. He felt the open-handed slap on the back of his head.

"What have I told you about that attitude, McCormick?" Richter replied.

"Sorry," McCormick amended with no indication of remorse. "What is your problem, _Detective_ Richter, _sir?"_ He braced himself, so he was better prepared for the second blow to his head. He allowed the quick but thorough search without argument. "Satisfied?"

"Disappointed," Richter said. "Turn around."

"I keep telling you I don't carry," McCormick answered as he turned as instructed. Deciding he wouldn't risk making things worse by trying to escape from a lunatic police officer, he leaned against the wall and faced Detective Rudolph Richter, or as he normally thought of him, Satan personified. It occurred to him suddenly that he had once thought of Hardcastle that way, too, but he pushed the unbidden thought from his mind. Hardcastle had never been like this. "Did you need something, Detective?"

"Just thought we would chat a minute, McCormick. What are you doing here, anyway?"

"It's a public building."

"True enough, though we don't normally see a lot of convicted felons wandering around our hallways. At least, not without handcuffs."

"I thought I might add a little character to the place."

"Unlikely," Richter replied coldly. He watched the other man closely, but McCormick was not about to be baited.

"So," the detective continued, "where's that crazy old judge of yours?"

"I'm sure if he had known I'd be running into you, he would've given me his complete social calendar, but as it is, I am sadly unprepared."

"I can't believe he lets you out on your own, especially down here. But, of course, he's always been a few bricks shy of a load, and everyone knows it. Teaming up with you was just the icing on the cake."

McCormick felt his fists clenching at his side, but he didn't make even the slightest sign of raising his hands toward Richter. Assaulting a police officer—no matter how much he deserved it—would not solve his problems right now. And, of course, he knew that Richter would be more than willing to take a slug to the face if it meant McCormick would finally be behind bars.

Richter laughed derisively as he watched McCormick struggle to control his temper. "Still pretending to be the good boy, huh, McCormick? Too bad I already know the truth. How many times have I busted you? Four? Five? Yeah, I definitely know the truth about you."

McCormick met his gaze evenly. "Actually, Detective, I'm pretty sure you've busted me six different times, but who's counting? The important thing to remember is the number of times those arrests have led to charges actually being filed, and the last time I checked, that was a big fat zero. Just because you always want me to be the bad guy in your perfect little world doesn't mean that's the way it is. You can't catch me now because I'm living the clean life, and you hate that. But you couldn't catch me then because you're a lousy cop. Sometimes life's a bitch, isn't it, Rudy?"

Richter closed the small gap between them quickly and placed a beefy hand in the middle of McCormick's chest, pinning him against the wall. "Are you ready to try for number seven, McCormick? I'm sure as hell game if you are."

But again McCormick refused to be lured into his trap. When he spoke again, his only objective was to end this conversation and get on with his life. "No, sir," he replied quietly, "I am not ready. I'm sorry for my harsh words. It won't happen again."

Richter looked at him suspiciously. "You know I'm always watching you, McCormick?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you know that means a hell of a lot more closely than that old coot of a judge?"

McCormick felt his nails digging into his palms as he forced himself to remain calm. "Yes, sir."

"And you know I'm hoping you'll make a mistake?"

"Yes, sir." That much at least was true.

Richter released him then, and took a deliberate step away from the next flight of stairs. "I'm glad we understand each other, McCormick." He jerked his head toward the lower level. "Now get out of here, but don't forget that I'll be watching. That's a promise."

McCormick descended the steps and left the stairwell without another word. As he made his way back to the elevator for the last few floors, he cursed the timing of his run-in with Richter. Absolutely the last thing he needed right now was a vindictive police officer breathing down his neck.

"Got any words of wisdom for me now, Hardcase?" he muttered. But the voice in his head was stubbornly silent.

00000

McCormick sat in the den, not even enjoying the fact that he was sitting at the judge's desk without repercussion. An uneaten pizza was getting cold, and a barely touched beer was getting warm. The only thing that held his attention at the moment was the file of papers he had strewn about on the desktop.

As he read through the police data, hoping to find information that would help him into Pedane's residence easily, what he actually discovered was that it would probably be harder to evade the observers than the observed; the cops were watching Pedane around the clock. He had not really expected that level of surveillance. And, to make matters even worse, it seemed that Wednesday—tomorrow—was the day Pedane held his weekly staff meetings…at his home, of course. Naturally enough, the meetings included a working lunch and usually extended to the dinner hour.

He was beginning to wonder if Lattimer had set him up to fail. Not likely, of course, but even if it were true, his old block mate was about to be seriously disappointed. Failure was not an option.

As his mind worked through the different possibilities, he glanced at his watch, only to discover it was only two minutes after five. "Damn!" He could have sworn thirty minutes had passed since he last checked the time; apparently, it had only been five. Not for the first time, he willed time to get a move on. He desperately needed to talk to the judge.

He grabbed the beer and took a long swig. He grimaced after the first swallow, but had neither the energy nor the inclination to go to the kitchen for a cold one, so he simply leaned back in Hardcastle's chair and closed his eyes. Had he known last night that he would have much more to worry about tonight, he would've tried harder to get some sleep. As it was, the short nap he had taken in this room earlier in the day was the best rest he'd had in over thirty hours.

As he took his short break, his mind wandered through his past with Judge Hardcastle. It was hard to believe that less than two years ago, he had truly hated the man. He remembered well the long, cold nights sleeping on worn mattresses, the sounds of pain and betrayal that would filter through the darkness, and the fear that had lived in his heart every day for two years. Hardcastle had done that to him.

But he also remembered the satisfaction of tracking down Flip Johnson's killer, warm congratulations after winning the Arizona Modifieds, and companionship on the long flight home from New Jersey after Sonny disappeared. Hardcastle had done all of that, too.

He realized that sometime during the last eighteen months, his hatred had been replaced with genuine affection, and that he had learned to forgive, even if he would never forget. On some level, he even understood that the time he spent inside was somehow necessary to make his current life have come about. He thought it was possible—maybe— that it had been a fair trade. Not that he would ever tell that to the judge.

But now, he felt as lost as he had ever felt. The man who had saved him (he hated to be melodramatic, but if he couldn't be honest with himself…) was in trouble, and it was his fault. He knew Hardcastle would never blame him, but who else could be at fault? If he hadn't been so worried about himself, if he had gone to the judge immediately and reported Lattimer, none of this would be happening now. Of course, he was certain that he could keep his end of the bargain, but it was always possible Ricky would not keep his. And then what? Assuming he lived through it himself, Mark believed that he would keep his promise of vengeance. He would quite probably commit murder, though he knew that was not the legacy the judge would want. How was it possible that it had come to this?

The phone rang then, startling McCormick out of his tortuous thoughts. He was surprised to feel the moisture on his face. He scrubbed his hands angrily across his eyes as he snatched the receiver off the hook. "McCormick."

Lattimer's voice came through the line. "How's it going, Mark?"

"Peachy. Where's Hardcastle?"

"All in good time. Do you have everything under control for tomorrow?"

"Not to worry, Ricky, it'll be taken care of. Now let me talk to the judge."

"You got one minute, Mark."

A heartbeat passed, and then, _"_How ya doing, kiddo?"

McCormick felt the relief wash over him as he heard the judge's voice. "Judge. Thank God. Are you okay? They haven't hurt you?"

"No, McCormick, they haven't hurt me. I'm fine. Anyway, I'm more concerned about you right now."

"Don't be a martyr, Judge. I'm not the one with a gun to my head."

"You know what I mean, kid. I don't want you doing this."

"We don't really have time to argue about this, Hardcastle. But don't worry about me. Things are under control here. I have everything taken care of."

"That's kind of what I'm worried about," Hardcastle told him wryly.

McCormick laughed at the tone. "Juuudge..."

"I'm serious, McCormick,"Hardcastle interrupted. "You're going to end up back in San Quentin if you do this."

"I have friends in high places, Hardcase. I figure you can pull some strings for me." McCormick waited for the inevitable response; _I don't pull strings, kid. _He wasn't expecting the gentle words that actually came from the judge.

"You know I'll do whatever I can, Mark."

McCormick matched his tone. "That's all I'm doing, too, Judge."

"Yeah, I know, kiddo, I know. But, listen, they're saying I gotta get off here now, so you be careful, you hear me?"

"I will, Judge. I'll talk to you tomorrow."

After a couple of seconds, Lattimer came back on the line. "Okay, Mark, satisfied?"

"For now, Ricky, for now. I expect that he will stay okay."

"That's up to you, Mark. Five-fifteen tomorrow."The line went dead before McCormick could say anything further.

McCormick stared at the phone for a few seconds, and then grabbed the radio to check in with Harper. After assuring the lieutenant the judge was still alive and well, he returned his attention to the surveillance information. He still had a lot of work to do.

As he read further into the material, he was disturbed to realize that the police department usually used a two-man team for surveillance. The graveyard shift seemed to be the only exception; there was only one officer watching the house then. Unfortunately, the "day shift" seemed to begin at various times depending on whatever was going on with Pedane at any given time. Typically, the second car showed up by seven o'clock, but McCormick found records indicating they had been in place as early as four on some occasions. Apparently, he would be making his entrance by moonlight.

Also contained in the information was the fact that the dual team actually had a purpose; one unit followed any of Pedane's cars that left the estate while the second stayed behind. Great. McCormick hadn't counted on evading a police surveillance unit as part of the bargain, but there was nothing in the reports that indicated the cars were stopped, only watched. Hopefully, that trend would continue.

By the time he had completed another two hours of reading, McCormick felt that he had a workable plan. It wouldn't be his first choice, but it would get the job done, and that was all that mattered.

He grabbed the phone again. His first call was to an old friend, arranging a favor. The next was to the local cab company, arranging a ride. Those tasks completed, he pushed himself slightly away from the desk and pulled open the top drawer. He stared at the holstered weapon lying there, not wanting to take it, but knowing that to go without it would be foolish.

As he stared into the drawer, he was immediately flooded with flashes of memories: Weed Randall raving in the courtroom just before he unbelievably retrieved his smuggled gun; Hardcastle in his robes, near death from a gunshot wound; waiting anxiously in the hospital with Sandy Knight, both of them fearing the worst; realizing he needed to find Randall, and finally tracking him to a small hotel; and, of course, the thundering explosion that had roared from this very weapon as he fired the shot that ended Randall's life.

The nightmares had come every night for the first couple of weeks. Even now, they still hadn't vanished completely. Hardcastle had assured him repeatedly that he had done the only possible thing—Sandy would surely have died, otherwise—but he would never forget holding Randall as the man's life slipped away, knowing that he was responsible.

But he would not allow those ghosts to keep him from succeeding in his current task. In fact, if things went horribly wrong, his experience with Randall might even help out in the end. Surely it would be much easier to kill the second time around, if it had to come to that.

Steeling himself against his fears, both past and present, he grabbed the gun, strode from the den, and headed outside toward the gatehouse. Once there, he went immediately upstairs to his bedroom. From the back of his closet, he grabbed a small black bag which contained everything he would need to get in and out of the Pedane estate. He smiled grimly as he thought that Hardcase would probably have locked him up just for having this stuff, much less all collected and ready to go. On the other hand, he was certain he had once heard the judge refer to him as an _elf that breaks into offices_ _and gets me things_, so maybe he would be forgiven after all. He threw the bag, the gun and his change of clothes on the floor at the foot of his bed, set his alarm for eleven p.m. and crawled into bed. He would force himself to get a few hours of sleep.

00000

Hardcastle stared resolutely at the door after Lattimer left the room with the phone. Not that he really had too many choices of activities. He had spent the first several hours in this small room lying on the bed, bound exactly as he had been when the men had removed him from Gull's Way, but with the added bonus of having duct tape added to his ankles as well. Finally, when the judge had managed to let them know nature was calling, Lattimer had decided to alter the restraints. They had removed all the tape, and then used handcuffs to secure one hand and one foot to the bed. Slightly more comfortable, but he still wouldn't be going anywhere.

Sometime during the afternoon, they had brought him a sandwich and soda, but he had only nibbled. He was far too worried to really be hungry. He had waited anxiously for the arranged contact time so that he could speak with McCormick, not knowing how to help his young friend in this situation. It had been good to hear his voice.

Mostly, though, he had hoped to convince McCormick that he should not commit a felony simply to perform a rescue. Not that he had honestly expected to be successful in that attempt, but he had to try. The reality was, if McCormick were the kind of person who would have refused to risk his own freedom to help a friend, they wouldn't be in this situation now. And not just this particular situation; everything about their relationship would be different. Actually, if Hardcastle was honest with himself, he knew that their relationship would be non-existent. He thought back to the circumstances that had brought McCormick into his custody.

At one point, Hardcastle had believed that he would be able to entice McCormick into working with him by offering time off his existing parole, but he had made a different offer once McCormick showed up in his court again on new charges. He knew now that reduced parole time would never have caused the ex-con to join him. Hell, the kid had almost refused even with a new prison sentence hanging over his head. And that new sentence had only been hanging because Mark had taken an insane risk in order to help a friend. Not really the brightest move ever made, the judge would always think, but not really the worst, either. And, Hardcastle would never forget that the only reason the kid was caught was because he had refused to allow a police officer to die. That single thought had erased whatever lingering doubts the judge might have had that McCormick was the right one for this job. Not that he would ever tell McCormick any of this, of course, but he would always respect that the kid operated on some level of morality.

As he sat on the bed, he thought of that day in his chambers when he had made his proposition to McCormick. _I'm not looking for us to be buddies. _In retrospect, though, he wondered if that hadn't been precisely what he had been looking for. Though unorthodox in many of his ways, Hardcastle hadn't gone out on a limb and started trying to personally rehabilitate convicts until after his wife had died. Was it possible he would have accepted anyone in his life just to avoid being alone?

After a moment to reflect on that possibility, Hardcastle shook his head. No, he didn't believe that. He would gladly admit—to himself, anyway—that he had come to enjoy McCormick's company, and certainly considered him more than just someone in his judicial stay. But he had found some companionship with the others, too, and he had still sent them back. Honestly, after his past fiascos—especially Beal—it would have been easier had he not gotten attached to McCormick. That way, if he were wrong again, it wouldn't be so difficult to lose him back to the system.

Not that he really expected to face that day with this one. He had become convinced early on that McCormick intended to follow whatever guidelines necessary to get his life back on track. His only true lingering concern was the kid's impetuous nature. McCormick was never going to go down for any kind of malicious, premeditated, just-doing-it-for-the-money-and-excitement type of violation, but the fiery indignation he could feel when confronted with any hint of injustice, combined with his rash behavior, was a sure recipe for disaster. To Hardcastle's relief, they hadn't yet run into anything more drastic than an occasional B&E and a few "borrowed" vehicles, and always for the greater good.

But the kid hadn't faced this situation before, and that scared the hell out of Hardcastle. He didn't know exactly what was involved in the job Lattimer had assigned his friend, but it obviously wasn't simple or none of this would have been necessary. He was desperately afraid that Mark was walking into something more complicated than he was prepared to handle, especially alone. It was bad enough thinking that if he got himself picked up over this whole thing, the kid could go back inside for a long time, but Hardcastle also had the feeling that if McCormick got caught by the rightful owner of this particular property, prison might be the least of the kid's worries.

When he closed his eyes, he remembered McCormick's face in the den. Twice today that face had been filled with guilt and fear, and the judge hated that he had been the cause both times. He heard McCormick's voice from this morning. _I'll get you out of this, Judge. _Damn, he wanted so much for McCormick to simply back off this thing, find a more traditional way of securing his release, but it was clear the young man did not intend to do that. He thought back to an earlier time…sending the kid undercover for a case…and he again heard Mark's voice, happier then, ringing in his ears. _Would I let you down? _Hardcastle smiled.

"Not possible, kid," he whispered to himself as he drifted off to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

McCormick pounded his fist into the alarm to stop the noise, and then forced himself out of bed. Groggy and slow, he stumbled to the shower. He let the water pound away the sleep, toweled off, and pulled on his working clothes, black on black. Then, after just a moment of indecision, he strapped on Hardcastle's shoulder holster, situated the gun, and pulled his jacket on top. He grabbed his bag and was in the driveway waiting when the cab pulled up. As they left the estate, McCormick failed to notice the lone green sedan that pulled out behind them onto the almost deserted road.

He directed the cabbie to the nearest bar, went inside and ordered a beer. He took his drink to a table, munched on a few pretzels, and made idle conversation with a few other patrons. After about half an hour, he blended into the crowd and then discreetly slipped out the door. He flagged the nearest cab and directed him to an address a block over from Pedane's house.

When the cab was out of sight, McCormick walked quickly over to the next block, but stopped at the top of the street. A privacy hedge provided the perfect cover for waiting. He couldn't quite make out the police surveillance vehicle, though he knew it would be there somewhere. He glanced at his watch; it was almost time.

At exactly one o'clock, he heard faint gunfire erupting several blocks away. He watched Pedane's street closely, alert for the surveillance vehicle.

"Come on man, do the right thing," he pleaded under his breath.

After a second burst of gunfire, he saw the unmarked car come to life and take off toward the sound.

"Thank you," he said as the car went barreling past his hiding spot. When the sedan was safely around the corner, Mark sprinted toward Pedane's estate. As he reached the wall, he pulled a climbing rope from his bag. He threw the end up, wrapping it around one of the decorative columns. He tugged on it to make certain it was secure, looped his bag over his neck and shoulder, and then began his ascent up the wall. Once at the top, he glanced around the grounds quickly. Assured that he had not attracted the attention of anyone inside the estate, he balanced himself on the wall while he untied the rope and dropped it inside the wall, then hoisted himself over and dropped to the ground. He stashed the rope back inside his bag, then made a dash directly toward the garage behind the house. As he was rounding the corner of the building, he noticed a car slip discreetly into place across the street. It never occurred to him the sedan could be anything other than the surveillance unit returning from its dead end.

Fortunately, the grounds of the estate did not consist entirely of manicured lawn, as McCormick had first feared. The main house and the garage were separated by a double row of decorative hedges, which would provide a convenient place to pass the remainder of the night. Without detailed information about the layout of the home or the security system, there was no way he was risking going in before daylight. In fact, he would probably wait until he was certain the meeting was in full swing before he ventured inside. Of course, that meant a lot more people who might happen upon him, but he figured that was the lesser of the evils.

He secreted himself into the bushes and squirmed around until he was as comfortable as he could be, which wasn't saying much, but he'd certainly endured worse. Besides, if he got too comfortable, he might fall asleep and that would be a monumentally bad idea. He pulled his jacket collar up against the cool night air and tried not to dwell on the fact that he was going to be here a very long time.

After a couple of hours sitting in the dark, he could feel his stomach starting to grumble, and he realized that—other than the pretzels at the bar—he hadn't eaten in over 24 hours. He grabbed his bag, rummaged through the inner compartment he thought of as the stakeout pocket, and pulled out a candy bar and a bottle of water. Not really the most nutritious meal, he knew, but it was enough to make sure he wouldn't pass out from starvation at a critical moment. He bit into the candy bar and suddenly found himself lost in memories of a very different place.

_A run down cabin in the middle of Nowhere, Arkansas. A beautiful Christy Miller. And a somewhat waterlogged candy bar for breakfast. He had spent the previous night consumed with grief, believing that Judge Hardcastle had been killed the day before. Sunrise—and Christy's presence—had brought somewhat clearer thinking, but the dull ache in his heart had continued. _

As he sat in the bushes, McCormick remembered that dull feeling well, and the memory brought his current fear back to the forefront of his thoughts. The coming day presented so many chances for error, and there was so much riding on his success, that it was almost paralyzing. He had been so grief-stricken that day in Arkansas; he couldn't imagine anything worse. And yet, that had been many months, dozens of cases, and hundreds of memories ago. How would he possibly cope with the grief if he were to lose Hardcastle now?

00000

McCormick squirmed around in his hiding spot in the bushes of the Pedane estate, and looked at his watch for about the millionth time: 11:30 a.m. He thought that it was surely late enough; he was tired of waiting. Contrary to all his planning and intentions, he had actually fallen asleep briefly while waiting in the dark. While he almost certainly needed the rest, he was convinced sleep had been more a product of boredom than anything else. He had awoken with the sunrise, so he had still been sitting quietly in hedges for several hours this morning, and he was running out of patience.

He had taken advantage of the early morning light to check out the garage, and had been pleasantly surprised to find that the car was going to present very few problems. Only very simple contact alarms protected the side door to the building, and McCormick had neutralized those quickly and easily. The 1966 marina blue Chevelle convertible was one of only three cars housed in a garage designed to hold twice that number, so movement would not be difficult. Inside the glove box was a dual remote opener that he thought could safely be assumed would control the garage door and the front gate, so his exit should go smoothly. And, as Lattimer had told him, the trunk was filled with an assortment of weapons, so he didn't have to worry that he was not delivering the package as agreed. Finally, he thought maybe he was catching a break.

The other positive thing the daylight had revealed was much simpler access to the main house than he had imagined. This side of the house boasted a second floor balcony that was accessed via a lovely sliding glass door. He had positioned himself in the hedges so that he could watch the balcony, and he had not seen any sign of movement on the other side of that glass door all morning. Yes, he definitely thought he was finally catching a break.

He looked at his watch again, and knew it was time to move. He took one final drink of water from the bottle, then stashed it back inside the pocket in his bag, also taking time to ensure he was not leaving behind any of the wrappers from the various snacks he had consumed while waiting. He pulled his rope back out of the bag, and positioned the bag back in place. He made certain his jacket was unzipped enough to allow access to the holstered gun should it be necessary, pulled his gloves back over his hands, and was ready to go.

He peered cautiously out of the hedges, looking in all directions before removing himself from complete cover. After making certain he was still alone back here, he moved quickly toward the house. In less than a minute, he had deftly looped the rope around the railing and was making his way upward to the balcony.

Climbing over the guardrail, McCormick opened up his bag of tricks again, replaced the rope, and retrieved his cutting tools. It was possible that the glass door also only had contact devices for security, but it wasn't likely. Even if it were true, the sliding doors were notoriously more difficult to disarm. Besides, during the normal daytime hours, the odds were in his favor that there would be no motion or sound detectors activated, so cutting through seemed the simpler approach.

McCormick made short work of the glass and was inside the house within three minutes. He looked quickly around what appeared to be some type of a spare bedroom. His instinct was that he would not find the files in this room, but he wasn't about to leave it to guesswork. He checked the closet, the drawers, and the private bath, but found nothing. He opened the bedroom door slightly and listened intently…nothing but the sound of voices rising from the gathering downstairs. He pulled the door open further and looked in both directions before stepping out into the hallway. He saw that he had a lot of ground to cover, probably eight to ten rooms on this floor, and he was guessing a similar layout on the floor above him. He hadn't quite figured out what he was going to do if the files were not on the upper floors, but he didn't really think that was too much of a possibility. Guys like Pedane kept their legitimate ventures—like the group in the house today—on the ground floor; the less savory aspects of their lives were almost always away from the public eye. Pulling the bedroom door behind him, he headed into the room to his immediate right.

It didn't take McCormick long to develop a routine: a brief pause to listen at the door was followed by an almost immediate entry; any closet or bathroom was searched thoroughly but neatly, and every drawer and cabinet was opened. He had been through six rooms so far without finding a hint of anything business related, and he was beginning to wonder just how many guest bedrooms one guy needed.

He had been working his way systematically around the hallway, and now found himself at the landing of the stairway. Listening closely, it seemed that the meeting below was still in full swing, and he didn't hear any sounds coming from above. Wanting to finish clearing this floor before going to three, he moved past the stairs cautiously and continued to the next room, but it was as barren as the previous six.

When he opened door number eight, he realized he had finally reached Pedane's suite. He went first to the small alcove off the main part of the room; with a desk and a small oak filing cabinet, it seemed to offer the most possibility. Unfortunately, a thorough search of the small office area did not reveal the items he sought, and he was becoming annoyed. He just barely managed to contain his frustration enough to keep from slamming the last drawer closed. Taking a calming breath, he moved out into the bedroom proper and continued his search. But this room still did not provide him with the answers to his search. With one more room left on this floor, he headed carefully back to the hallway.

He completed his search of the ninth bedroom quickly, and still had nothing to show for his time and trouble.

Back at the stairway landing, he again listened to determine what was going on downstairs. The meeting seemed to have moved into the lunch stage, but it seemed that they were still talking business, too. Good. That made it unlikely that any of the group was wandering the halls up here. McCormick took a quick glance at his watch. He had been in the house over an hour already. He knew he need-ed to speed the process. Every minute here was a potential disaster. Without further consideration, he started up the stairs.

As soon as he reached the third floor, he knew this was where he should have begun his search. The open room, though large, was clearly a personal sanctuary. Mahogany paneling, large, overstuffed chairs, and richly colored tapestries simply screamed of both money and privacy. And along one wall, a row of cherry finished file cabinets. McCormick grinned and headed over to begin his search.

There were a lot of files, and each section was alphabetized within itself, so that created a lot of 'L' sections, but Mark set out to search each one, determined not to miss anything that might be needed to get the judge back. After another hour, he was confident that he had retrieved everything Lattimer could want. He placed the file folders into his bag and started back downstairs.

He paused briefly before stepping onto the second floor, but everyone was still downstairs. He continued quickly back to the room he had entered through, and within minutes, had lowered himself off the balcony and back to the yard.

He returned to the garage and reentered through the side door. He slipped into the driver's seat of the Chevelle and tossed his bag onto the passenger side. Reaching into the bag again, he grabbed the jumper wires necessary to hotwire the engine. He reached under the dash, made the connections, and had the engine running within seconds. He didn't even take time to reflect on the car, though under other circumstances he would have admired the way it roared smoothly to life. He checked the time again: 2:20 p.m.. He was doing fine. He had plenty of time to take the surveillance cops on a nice tour of the city and still make it back home by the deadline. He reached into the glove box for the remote control, then paused just long enough to offer a silent prayer that his good luck would continue to hold.

00000

Hardcastle was not in a good mood. First of all, he had awakened with a stiff neck and an aching back from the position he had slept in the previous night. The only stretching he had received was a short trip to the bathroom, and even then, Lattimer's goons kept his hands cuffed together. Secondly, no one would ever accuse him of being a patient man, and he was well past tired of being chained to this bed. And lastly, the longer he sat here the more he thought about McCormick, and, frankly, he liked it better when the kid wasn't the only thing on his mind all day.

He thought the two of them had established a pretty good working relationship, and if they had also happened to become friends, well, then, so much the better. But that didn't mean he wanted to sit around and dwell on it, especially since that forced him to examine his own behavior toward McCormick, and he hated the realization that maybe he was sometimes a little too hard on the kid.

He knew that this custody arrangement hadn't exactly been easy for McCormick, but he also recognized that the young man was honestly trying. Sometimes, Hardcastle even thought the kid might enjoy bringing down the bad guys almost as much as he did, no matter how much he complained.

He thought back to Lattimer's comments yesterday about McCormick's new life and smiled. Certainly, the judge believed that he had provided opportunities to the ex-con for which anyone should be grateful, but he wasn't always certain McCormick shared that belief. It was nice to know at least some of it was appreciated. And he hated to admit it, but he found that he was touched to hear that Mark had been willing to confess his appreciation to his prison buddy. Hardcastle distinctly remembered that it hadn't been all that long ago when the idea of defending him didn't even cross the kid's mind. _I can't very well_ _tell another con that the judge who sent me up is a good friend of mine. _McCormick hadn't even tried to explain his reasoning, just thought that it should be self-evident.

But now, not only had Mark turned down an undoubtedly lucrative offer from an old friend, but he had done so because he didn't want to louse things up with the judge, and he had been honest with Lattimer about his reasons. Hardcastle was surprised to find himself feeling a surge of pride for the young man.

He jerked his arm against the handcuffs in frustration. How could this be happening? Whatever potential the kid had brought into this arrangement, and whatever he had learned since being with the judge, was all about to be wasted. Wasted because some sleazy ex-convict was taking advantage of McCormick's good nature. Wasted because Mark would be incapable of refusing to do Lattimer's bidding. Wasted because, against all odds, two very different people had become friends, and that friendship was being extorted.

Again, Hardcastle pulled against his restraints. Again and again he pulled, needing some kind of release for his anger, rattling the bed against the wall, not caring about the noise or the pain he was inflicting.

It didn't take long for Lattimer to come storming through the door.

"Did you need something, Judge?" he asked, his tone distinctly contrasting his physical demeanor. Always the affable host.

Hardcastle looked at him in disbelief.

"You must be going a little stir crazy in here all alone," Lattimer continued conversationally as he pulled a chair to sit by the bed. "But it's almost over now. A few more hours and you'll be home."

"Don't screw with me, Lattimer," Hardcastle replied. "First of all, you shouldn't be so sure that McCormick's going to pull this job of yours. He's not stupid, you know. And secondly, I'm not stupid, either. I certainly don't believe you intend to let me walk away, even if you do get your weapons."

"I am many things, Your Honor, but a liar is not one of them. You'll go home as soon as Mark gets me my car."

"And you expect me to believe that?"

Lattimer shrugged. "As soon as we make the exchange this evening, I'll be leaving town, and shortly after that, I'll be leaving the country. It doesn't matter that you know who I am, or that you'd be able to build a kidnapping case against me, or anything else, because you'll never find me. So, there's no reason to kill you. Mark's going to keep his part of the deal, Judge, and I'm going to keep mine."

Hardcastle looked at his captor speculatively. "Why McCormick?" he asked.

"It's kind of complicated, but for reasons too numerous to explain, I couldn't use any of my own people. For many of these same reasons, the majority of the local talent was not to be trusted, and I didn't have time to find someone out of town. I lost possession of my property two days ago and I needed it today, so I turned to an old friend. I had heard he was paroled into your custody, but it never occurred to me he would be taking it seriously."

"I guess you underestimated him," the judge said blandly. "He's straight now, Lattimer. He's not going to help you."

"I think you are the one underestimating, Judge. He won't let you die. You have to know that."

Hardcastle shot a dark look at Lattimer; he would not have this man reassuring him. "I don't need your platitudes," he said harshly.

Lattimer grinned slightly. "You know what's funny, Judge? I bet you think you're the one who's helping him. But the truth is, Mark's always been a sucker for a lost soul, always had a soft spot for strays. Next time you're congratulating yourself on how you rescued him from a life of crime, you might stop to think about what he's done for you. That should be a little easier after he pulls your ass out of this particular sling."

"Don't talk to me about him, Lattimer."

"Touchy subject, huh? Well, listen, did he ever tell you about the guys he tried to help in prison? Whenever we'd get a new kid, Mark would be the one trying to show them the ropes, making sure they didn't end up someone's latest conquest. Someone helped him survive those first few weeks; he figured he should do the same for others. Hell, he was practically the official welcome wagon for the block. But every once in a while we'd get someone really young, really green, and really scared. Mark always tried the hardest with them. Protecting those kids landed him in the infirmary more than once, but no one ever got to them; Mark made sure of that." Lattimer paused and looked at the judge knowingly. "Looks like you're his latest project, Hardcastle."

Hardcastle just stared at the man without speaking. What exactly had the kid said to this psycho that would imply the judge needed help from anyone? And how was it that McCormick seemed to think that he had provided that help? And, most important, how was it that he himself had not considered that possibility? The judge jolted at that thought, but he pushed it out of his mind. Whatever Mark may have done for him, it was certainly no one's business but his own.

"Drop dead, Lattimer." Not very original, but he figured the kid would approve.

Lattimer grinned again. "Of course, Mark also said you were a donkey." He was standing to leave the room when one of the other thugs rushed in and whispered something frantically in his ear. Lattimer sent him away quickly, and then returned his attention to the judge.

"Thought you might like to know, Hardcase, Mark made it out with the car. I told you he'd do it. Unfortunately, he seems to have picked up some company…got some of Pedane's guys and a couple of cops chasing after him."

Hardcastle was stunned. "Pedane? You sent the kid after Louis Pedane?"

"I told you it was complicated," Lattimer replied. "I guess we'll know soon how he makes out, but if I were you, I'd say a little prayer." He left the room without further comment.

Alone again, Hardcastle was consumed with a renewed fear. Lattimer's past record had him pegged as a fairly low-level guy. It had never occurred to the judge that Lattimer would be involved with anyone as dangerous as Pedane. Now it was clear why the guy was paranoid; if Pedane wanted someone pushed out, they usually got pushed. And Lattimer had managed to place McCormick right in the middle of this turf war.

With a groan, Hardcastle leaned back against the headboard. "God, please…let him be okay."

00000

"Damn it all to hell!" McCormick yelled as he skidded around a corner. Regaining control of the car, he jammed it back into gear and hit the gas again. For about the fiftieth time, he wished fervently he was behind the wheel of his own car. While the Coyote really wasn't made for the daily street use it got now, there was no arguing the fact that it handled well, especially in high-speed situations. But he was quickly getting a feel for the Chevelle around him, and he knew it was a decent car. He just would not have chosen to test a vehicle under these circumstances. Not that he'd really had much choice.

Things had gone well at the Pedane estate…right up to the point that he had heard the alarm blaring across the grounds thirty seconds before he cleared the front gate. He didn't know what had given him away. Someone could have seen him driving down the ridiculously long driveway, he could have tripped some kind of unseen alarm leaving the garage, or he might have ultimately triggered the uproar when he opened the gate. Either way, the last few yards down the drive had seemed like miles, and exiting the estate onto the open street had felt remarkably like walking out of Quentin. He had been prepared to lead one police vehicle on a leisurely and pointless trip through the city before ditching them somewhere around Hollywood, but now he had four cars barreling after him with the speedometer holding steady at about eighty. This was a bit more than he had bargained for.

Based on his best guess, two of the cars behind him belonged to Pedane and the other two belonged to the police, but as far as he was concerned, there was little difference. One group might kill him while the other would only arrest him, but in either case, he would be prevented from making his scheduled delivery and that simply could not happen. As he careened through the streets, he tried to organize his thoughts. Pedane's cars—two black Camaros—would probably be the harder to lose. The cops were in typical, practical sedans—a beige Ford and a green Buick—and would hopefully drop out soon. Of course, fifteen minutes had already passed and they were still there. Not that McCormick blamed them. The type of surveillance they had going on at Pedane's was put in place hoping for one thing only: some type of mistake that would allow them a foothold into the organization, and he knew that he was that mistake. If they could apprehend him in the commission of a felony, maybe they could gather much needed information to start bringing down a crime lord. They couldn't know that he didn't hold that answer for them. Not that they wouldn't appreciate the trunkload of armaments they would get from him, but he wouldn't be quite the treasure they hoped.

"I'll try and save you the trouble, boys," he muttered.

Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a break in the oncoming traffic. Sadly, he was in the center lane, but that couldn't be his concern right now. With a quick glance in his mirrors, he jerked the wheel hard to the left and punched the gas, cutting across the four lanes of traffic that separated him from his target. He was pleased to see that one of the Camaros had been completely caught off guard and lost control as he tried a last minute u-turn, slamming the back end into a light pole, but the other three cars were making their way to the side street he had taken and were doing their best to keep up.

Watching the cars in his rearview mirror, he was surprised to see the green spot fading in the distance as the Buick was apparently pulling out of the chase. He saw that it was rapidly losing speed and falling behind the other cars, then suddenly fully stopped and completed a u-turn, only to disappear quickly from sight. He assumed that the driver was trying to flank him in some way, hoping to cut him off, but he didn't have time to try to second-guess. He still had a small lead between the remaining two cars, and he knew he needed to capitalize while he had the chance. He applied a bit more pressure to the gas pedal, and was pleased to find that the Chevelle responded well.

When he had placed another three blocks between himself and the pursuing cars, he took another sharp left, then turned right at the very next street. He was growing tired of the surface streets and desperately wanted to reach the freeway. He knew if he could make it to the 405, he could put some serious distance between himself and his followers, which was exactly what he needed. He had to lose these guys before he could start back home. There was no way he was leading them anywhere near Gull's Way.

As he continued his twists and turns through the streets, he took the time to glance at his watch again. Jeez, it was three already, and he really didn't have time for this. He was slowly pulling ahead of the others, but he could still occasionally see them on parallel streets or coming around corners; they weren't lost yet.

Finally, he rounded one last corner and found himself at the freeway. Thank God! He hit the ramp heading south, and punched the gas. Even though he knew he couldn't stay on the surface streets, the highway did present its own dangers, primarily other cars—especially other cop cars. He couldn't worry about that now, though…this was his only chance to lose them for sure.

He had the accelerator on the floor, and the speedometer was pegged at one hundred. In his rearview mirror, he thought he could make out a black Camaro, but he saw no sign of the unmarked police car. He saw the exit signs for Interstate 10, and slowed just enough to make the eastbound exit, then pushed it back to the floor. He weaved through the traffic for a few miles until he reached La Cienega. He exited southbound and immediately whipped around to hit Venice Boulevard headed west. Once back off the freeway, he kept his speed at about fifty, and watched his mirrors closely. He didn't see signs of any of his pursuers, so when he reached Highway 1, he turned back north and headed for home.

00000

It was after four when McCormick pulled into the drive at Gull's Way. He would have preferred to be home earlier, but a high-speed chase through half of southern California hadn't been in his original game plan. Besides, he still had time for a shower, so he wasn't going to complain. And he might even have time for a cold beer; he sure as hell felt like he had earned one. The only possible upside to his delayed return was that he didn't have a lot of time to sit around and worry that something would go wrong before the exchange. He parked the Chevelle safely out of sight in the garage, stashed Lattimer's files under the seat, and grabbed his bag. He knew he needed to check messages—and check in with Harper—before he could hit the shower, but that shouldn't take long.

He closed the garage door and turned to head for the house, but he slowed to a halt when he saw the green Buick pull to a stop in the drive. This could not possibly be good. He continued slowly, knowing that he really didn't have any other option but to go forward. Besides, surely there were hundreds of green Buicks in the surrounding area. He was approaching the car, preparing to play this as normally as possible, but the greeting died on his lips when he saw Rudolph Richter stepping from the car.

"Don't do it, McCormick!"

He was certain that the directive must have actually come from Richter, but it was Hardcastle's voice he heard in his head, and Hardcastle whom he obeyed. He found his hand frozen on the grip of the gun in his jacket, though he had no conscious realization that he had even moved. Had he intended to shoot a cop? He didn't think so, but... It took a moment for him to recognize that Richter was still speaking.

"Let me see your hands, McCormick, but slowly."

The detective had not yet moved away from the car, and was using the vehicle for cover as he held his service revolver leveled at McCormick.

Numbly, McCormick raised his hands into the air. No, this was not good at all.

"All right," Richter continued, "first toss the bag over here to the front of the car." He waited for McCormick to comply, then went on. "Now, with your left hand, the gun. But, McCormick," he warned, "I've waited a long time to lock you up. Don't make me kill you now."

McCormick reached slowly into his jacket and removed the weapon carefully. He placed it on the ground at his feet and kicked it toward the car. Only then did Richter move from behind the car.

"I thought you didn't carry," Richter said as he spread McCormick against the hood of his sedan.

"Only on special occasions," McCormick replied faintly, sarcastic from habit more than any true intention. He could feel Richter searching him for any additional weapons, and he knew he had to halt this series of events, but his mind had stopped processing the minute he'd seen the detective step from the car. What in God's name was he supposed to do now?

"Ric—" McCormick stopped and started again. "Detective, there's something you need to know."

"I know enough," Richter replied as he locked his handcuffs around McCormick's right wrist and pulled the arm down behind his back.

"No, you don't," McCormick contradicted, allowing himself to turn into the force of Richter's tug on his arm so that he was facing the detective. "It's a matter of life and death."

Richter pushed him roughly back against the car. "Don't screw around with me, McCormick," he said as he locked the hands together behind his prisoner's back. He held McCormick in place, face down on the car, while he read him the Miranda statement. Only then did he pull him off the car and spin him around. "You've had a busy day today," he said as he studied McCormick's face.

"Just life," McCormick answered, not giving anything away. "But, listen—"

"No, you listen. I knew there was something going on yesterday when I saw you, and now I have proof, so what do you say we go inside and talk to your favorite judge?"

McCormick allowed himself to be steered toward the front door. After all, that was where he wanted to go. "The judge is exactly what I want to talk to you about. He's in trouble."

When Richter didn't respond, McCormick planted himself at the foot of the porch and stared at him. "What are you doing here, anyway, Detective?" he asked.

"Looking for you, what else? I told you I knew yesterday something wasn't right, so I thought I'd come out here and alert Hardcastle that you were up to something, but he wasn't here. I decided to wait. Imagine my surprise when you were the only person to come home all day. Imagine my even greater surprise when you left again late last night by taxi cab."

"You were here all night?" McCormick was amazed.

"Actually, just until you left…then I followed. I thought I might find something really interesting, but I was disappointed to see the cab drop you at a crummy bar. But I am nothing if not determined, McCormick, so I waited a bit longer, and soon you were moving again. My patience was rewarded when I saw you scale that wall. Just had to establish something of an alibi first, huh, McCormick?"

"I can explain all that. It's about the judge—"

"Right, the judge. Let's go ahead and see him now, shall we?" Richter jerked McCormick by the arm to move him up the steps. Once at the front door, he rang the bell.

"He's not home," McCormick said, "but the keys are in my pocket."

"Can't believe he trusts you with keys to this place," Richter muttered as he fished the keys out of McCormick's jacket pocket.

"He trusts me with his life," McCormick replied.

"Yeah, right," the detective snorted. He led McCormick into the foyer, then slammed him back against the front door. "That's far enough."

Richter advanced a couple of steps further into the house. "Judge Hardcastle?" he called. "It's Rudolph Richter with the LAPD."

"I told you, he's not here," McCormick said in exasperation. "He's—"

"What have you done with him?" Richter interrupted.

"What have I…?" The idea was so absurd, McCormick couldn't even finish the sentence. "Richter, I haven't done anything with him; he's been kidnapped. That's what I've been trying to tell you. If you will let me explain—"

Richter turned back quickly and slapped McCormick across the cheek. "Shut up! I need to figure out what's going on, and I don't have time to listen to your lies."

Time. It was the one concept McCormick could grasp exceedingly well at the moment. He kept his voice calm. "All right, Detective, I understand. But I can prove what I said about the kidnapping if we just go into the den."

Richter studied him for a moment, then relented. "You first," he said, and pushed McCormick toward the den.

"It happened yesterday," McCormick began as he walked to the open doorway. "When you saw me at the department, I had just reported the abduction to Lieutenant Harper. We agreed the wisest thing was just to pay the ransom… Damn!" McCormick stumbled as he took the last step into the den. With his hands cuffed behind him, he had no way to balance himself, and he was headed for the floor. He felt Richter reach out to break his fall…just as he had hoped. When he felt the detective grab his jacket, McCormick continued his lunge forward, turning his body at the same time, serving to throw Richter off balance himself. Completing his turn quickly, McCormick ran headlong into the other man, knocking him to the floor. McCormick quickly dropped on top of the detective, placing his full body weight on Richter's chest and effectively pinning him in place.

"You just bought yourself ten years back inside, McCormick," Richter blustered, trying to break free.

_Probably,_ McCormick thought as he rearranged himself to place one knee on Richter's throat. Out loud, he said, "You can lock me up later, Richter. Right now I need out of these cuffs."

The detective gave a harsh laugh—the most he could manage with his limited air supply. "I'm sure as hell not going to help you," he gasped.

McCormick exerted more pressure on his throat. "I wasn't lying, Richter. Hardcastle really has been taken and I don't have time to argue with you. I will get out of these cuffs, one way or the other."

The detective stared up at him. "Gonna kill me?" he asked weakly.

"I don't want to," McCormick grunted. "But if I have to choose between you and the judge…you lose."

"I'm sure he'll forgive you. Won't help his reputation any, though."

McCormick looked down at the detective sharply. It was certainly true that his actions would reflect on Hardcastle, but he didn't need this guy patronizing him. As he stared at him, he could see the beginning of discoloration on the man's face. He was sure…well, pretty sure, anyway…that Richter would pass out before he would die. He tried to block out the next logical thought, but it was impossible.

What if he didn't?

McCormick thought for a long moment about a lifetime in prison, and found that he would be more than willing to endure that punishment to save Hardcastle. He thought maybe he could even endure the loneliness of losing the judge's friendship. But, at last, McCormick realized that he would never be able to live with himself if this man died today.

In his moment of contemplation, McCormick's grip loosened just slightly, and Richter was prepared. He thrust his body upward off the floor and managed to dislodge McCormick from his chest. He completed his movement to roll McCormick onto his back on the floor, and suddenly, their positions were reversed.

Taking huge gasps of breath to refill his lungs, Richter placed his own weight across McCormick's chest and reached to his holster. As he buried the gun barrel in the curly brown hair, he growled a single command. "Talk to me."

McCormick looked at him uncertainly, but he answered quickly. "I did time with a guy in Quentin, Ricky Lattimer. He got involved in brokering some gun deal, but before he could deliver, Louis Pedane decided to cut himself in and took possession of the first shipment. Ricky wanted me to steal his stuff back for him; I refused. He came back yesterday and snatched Hardcastle, saying he would only release him if I got his guns and some files Pedane had at his house, so I got them. We're supposed to make the exchange at six tonight; he's calling at 5:15. I have to be able to take that call."

"Why didn't you call us?" Richter asked, removing neither himself nor his weapon.

"First of all, they told me they'd kill him if I reported it. Secondly, I did it, anyway, but discreetly. I told you...I talked to Frank Harper yesterday."

"And Lieutenant Harper knew you were going to steal the ransom and just let you walk out the door?"

"No," McCormick lied without hesitation. There was no sense dragging Harper into trouble from this guy. "I let him believe it was the judge's money they were after. He's going to have some guys in place to cover the exchange. He gave me a radio to keep in touch; it's over there on the desk."

Richter looked at him suspiciously. "How do I know you and your buddy didn't stage a kidnapping, intending for it to go wrong and the judge to end up dead?"

"What?" McCormick had been prepared for just about anything, but not that. The sudden expression of total shock and dismay might have been comical under other circumstances. And had Richter not harbored such resentment for McCormick for so many years, he would probably have understood immediately that the reaction was genuine.

"I didn't… I mean, I wouldn't… I couldn't… You have to believe…"

"I don't have to believe anything," Richter said harshly. But he pushed himself off his prisoner and up off the floor. His gun never wavered. "Don't move."

McCormick was perfectly still as Richter walked to the desk. He heard him leafing through the papers lying there, and winced slightly. _So many chances for error_, he thought to himself.

"Where'd you get this surveillance information?"

"From Harper," McCormick admitted.

"I thought you said he didn't know anything about your plans?"

"He didn't. I told him I thought I could get a lead on the judge's whereabouts, that's all. The only information I gave him was that Hardcastle had been taken by Lattimer, and that I would drop the ransom today."

"And he just turned over all this confidential information?" Richter clearly was not convinced.

"Look," McCormick began, "this is stupid. First of all, can I get up now?" When he didn't receive a response, he continued. "I'll take that as a 'no'. Anyway, Frank and the judge have been friends a long time. He's just trying to help without putting Hardcastle's life in any more danger. He and the judge exchange information all the time when they're working cases; this isn't any different."

"Except that Hardcastle isn't the one he gave this information to," Richter insisted.

McCormick sighed. "Okay. You know what? I know that you're never going to get the fact that I'm actually working for the good guys now, and that's okay. But Hardcastle and Frank, they do get that, and they know I would never do anything to hurt them. So, yeah, they treat me with a bit more leniency than most of the ex-cons you've run across. Do you think we could just accept that at face value right now and argue about the merits of the idea later? I'm working on something of a deadline here, you know."

Richter smiled slightly. If McCormick was telling the truth about this whole thing, he had a valid argument. He glanced at his watch: 4:45 p.m.. "Okay," he said finally. He went back to where McCormick was still lying on the floor. "Let me help you up…but don't even think about trying anything."

"No, sir," McCormick replied evenly. He allowed the detective to pull him to his feet. "Now what?"

"Now we wait for your phone call, then I'll take the car to the meet, and Harper and I will round up your buddies."

"No!"

Richter leveled his gun at McCormick's midsection. "You're getting agitated again, McCormick."

McCormick shook his head and spoke quickly, "No, I'm fine. I'm glued to this spot, I swear. But we have to talk about this. I have to make the exchange. If someone else shows up, he's gonna kill the judge. We can't risk that."

"It seems to have escaped your attention that you're under arrest, Mr. McCormick."

"What? But I thought…"

"Thought what?" Richter asked. "That I'd overlook a handful of felony charges just because you had a good reason? Is that the lesson Hardcastle is teaching you?"

"No, of course not. But—"

"But nothing, McCormick. I'm going to handle the exchange, and you're going to the county lockup."

"County lockup will still be there later tonight, Detective," McCormick pointed out. "Let me finish this."

"Right," Richter said derisively. "Like we'd see you again if I let you walk out of here."

"Where would I go? I have to make the exchange, and it's going to be covered by your guys. I wouldn't have a chance to get out even if I wanted to."

Richter pondered that last comment, but decided not to pursue it. "Of course, once you're with your legal friends again, I'm sure they'll try to find a way to get you off."

McCormick shook his head. "You'd risk a man's life just to make sure I finally end up back behind bars?" Richter simply stared at him without speaking. "Okay…and I'll take that as a 'yes.' All right, Detective, you're in charge here. Tell me what it's going to take to get me to that meet. What do you want? I'll do anything you say, but you better spit out your best offer soon because we are running out of time."

"McCormick, in the last twelve hours, you have been guilty of breaking and entering, burglary, grand theft auto, evading arrest and assaulting a police officer. Then you can throw in the fact that you committed all of your felonies while armed with a deadly weapon, and top it all off with a few hundred traffic violations. I'm pretty sure that adds up to about fifteen years in maximum security. And that's just the stuff I know about. There's no way in hell I'm letting you out of custody."

"You know I can beat this. Any public defender two weeks out of law school could paint me as a sympathetic victim of circumstance. I'm betting on a straight acquittal, but I figure the worst-case scenario is some fairly lengthy probation. But since my current sentence runs, oh…_indefinitely, _I don't see the problem. So, let me rephrase the question. Are you really willing to risk getting the judge killed when you won't even have the satisfaction of seeing me in prison?"

Richter stared at him for a long moment. More than anything, he was astounded by the fact that—true to his word—McCormick hadn't moved an inch during their entire conversation, though every muscle in his body clearly screamed the need to do _something_. He wasn't sure why he found that such an encouraging thought, so he pushed it from his mind. Finally, he spoke. "I want a confession."

"I haven't tried to deny any of it, Detective."

"That's not what I mean. I want a signed statement. I want it spelled out clearly in black and white. No extenuating circumstances, no appeals for leniency. And when you stand up at your arraignment, I want a guilty plea."

It was McCormick's turn to stare.

"Not what you were expecting?" the detective asked.

"Hardly," McCormick answered, almost inaudibly.

After several minutes of silence, Richter said, "Five o'clock, McCormick."

McCormick looked at him, anger smoldering in his eyes. "You know this is insane? Judge Hardcastle could end up dead while you're trying to win some ridiculous pissing contest."

Richter shrugged. "You asked what I wanted. You and I both know I want you off the streets. I didn't expect you to agree." He paused and looked at his watch. "But the clock's ticking."

"I do this, you let me handle the exchange?" McCormick asked quietly.

"That's the deal," the officer answered.

"Yeah, deal of a lifetime," McCormick muttered under his breath. To Richter, he said, "Fine, you've got a deal. How do you want to work this?"

"I want the statement before we leave."

"Whatever. Get these cuffs off me and I'll write it now."

"All right, over here by the desk." Richter removed the bracelet from McCormick's right wrist, pushed him down into the seat, and locked the cuff around the arm of the chair.

"Apparently you've missed the whole point of this exercise, Detective," McCormick said sardonically. "I'm not interested in going anywhere."

"Just write," Richter ordered.

McCormick opened a drawer and found a legal pad. Grabbing a pen, he started writing.

00000

Hardcastle would swear that his watch had stopped. He was certain it hadn't moved at all since the last time he'd looked at its face. Of course, in the hours since Lattimer had dropped the bomb about Mark being chased by Pedane's goons, the judge had looked at his watch approximately every ninety seconds, and each time he had expected to see that it was time for the arranged phone conversation. Now, though, it was ten minutes after five, and he thought Lattimer should be here with the phone. Finally, his "host" came strolling into the room, followed by his two hired guns.

"Is there any news?" Hardcastle asked.

Lattimer shook his head. "During the pursuit, we were tracking him on the police scanner, but he lost them pretty easily. We didn't ever hear anything about any sort of accident, or anything that sounded like Pedane's guys got picked up, either, so we don't really know what happened. But I guess we'll find out here in a minute, won't we?"

"You don't seem very concerned," the judge observed.

"This is something I can't control, Hardcase. You should learn to let go of some of your stress. On the other hand, I'm not the one looking at a death sentence if he doesn't pull this off."

Privately, Hardcastle thought he might want to die if it turned out the kid had been captured by Pedane, but that certainly wasn't something his captors needed to know.

"Just dial the phone, Lattimer."

Lattimer grinned maliciously, but he dialed the phone. Hardcastle found he wasn't breathing until he heard the man say, "There's someone here who wants to talk to you, Mark."

Hardcastle grabbed the phone quickly. "Mark? Are you okay, kiddo?"

He could hear the smile in the young man's voice. "I'm fine, Judge. How about you?"

"I'm scared to death, McCormick," Hardcastle answered gruffly. "You didn't tell me it was Louis Pedane."

"Yeah, well, I didn't want to worry you. But, anyway, it's done now, so put it out of your mind. How are they treating you, Judge?"

"Well, I didn't get to see John Wayne last night, but other than that..."

McCormick laughed. "That's okay. I won't even fight you for the remote tonight. I think it's _The Green Berets."_

The judge smiled. "Listen, what I actually want to tell you is that it's not too late to back out of this thing. You've still got time to-—-"

McCormick cut him off. "Judge. Someday I will take the time to tell you about all the trouble I've gone through just to make sure this works out okay, but for now, trust me when I say we have passed the point of no return. Besides, I told you I was going to bring you home, so why don't you drop the self-sacrificing bit and let me do what I do best?"

"I'll let you in on a little secret, kiddo…I don't think they've tapped into your best qualities. But I appreciate it, anyway. Really."

McCormick didn't like the sound of that. "Hardcastle, what are you thinking? Whatever it is, just forget it. I'm getting you out of there within the hour, so don't you go screwing anything up, you hear me?"

Hardcastle reflected quickly that the young man really was getting too good at reading him. "I hear you, McCormick. But Lattimer says I have to go now, so I just want to tell you…no matter what happens, don't blame yourself, okay? And be careful."

"What? Judge, you really are starting to worry me now. What—-"

Lattimer grabbed the phone away from Hardcastle. "Time's up." He turned to his associates. "All right, get him out of here. We'll be leaving in a couple of minutes."

He spoke into the phone again. "Okay, Mark, I think we have some business to discuss. I assume you have everything I requested?"

"Yeah, I have it. But what's going on with Hardcastle? Have you done anything to him?"

"What are you talking about? I told you I'd return him to you safely, and I will. My boys are bundling him up now." He glanced over and saw that Hardcastle's feet had been freed, and he was sitting on the edge of the bed waiting for his hand to be released. They released the cuff from the bed railing and locked his hands together in front of him.

"No," Lattimer corrected, "get his hands behind his back so he can't—"

But his warning came too late. Hardcastle had known he would only have one chance to make his move and he was ready. During the transition, both men had been watching their captive closely, but as soon as the handcuffs had been secured, one of them turned away slightly, which was the only opening the judge needed.

Grabbing the nearest man by the shirtfront, the judge rose quickly from the bed and brought a knee up into his captor's groin, then jammed his leg back down, stomping the guy's foot in the process. Still holding tight to the shirt, Hardcastle swung him into the second man, toppling him like a bowling pin.

Lattimer had been shouting out warnings to his thugs, and McCormick's worried voice was crying out from the phone, but Hardcastle thought only of the two men directly in front of him. They had to be stopped before he could ever hope to get Lattimer. He stomped on the chest of the guy still lying on the floor, and swung the other around in front of him as a shield, trying to get his manacled hands around his neck. He saw Lattimer reach for his gun, and in that instant, he removed his focus from the man floundering on the floor. He felt his legs go out from under him, and he was pulling the other gunman down with him. He was focused on rolling with the fall when he heard the gun go off.

00000

"Damn!" McCormick screamed as he slammed the receiver onto the phone. Deciding the action was somehow cathartic, he picked it back up and did it again. "Damn!" And again and again and again. "Damn! Damn! Damn!"

Finally, Richter placed a restraining hand over the phone. "What happened?"

McCormick ignored his question and grabbed the radio. "Frank?"

"Yeah? What's the story?" Harper's voice answered.

McCormick fought to control his voice as he answered. "Things are on hold here for a bit. I think the judge is trying some kind of escape or something. I was talking to them when everything started, and the line was open right up to the point that I heard a gunshot."

"Oh, God," Frank replied.

"Yeah."

"All right, keep me posted."

McCormick tossed the radio onto the desk and sat staring at the phone, willing it to ring again. God, it had to ring.

Richter watched him silently, evaluating. He had been hugely surprised that McCormick had agreed to his terms concerning the ransom exchange, but the ex-con had silently written a detailed confession free of any excuses for his actions and then handed it to him, along with a simple pledge: "I won't forget about the plea, Detective."

Afterwards, he had set about gathering all the papers that had been strewn across the desk, trying to restore some sense of order, and never once complaining about the restraint that was clearly hampering his progress. At one point, he had picked up a pizza box and a beer can and held them out to the detective.

"Would you mind taking these to the trash can? The judge hates it when I use his desk."

Richter had been caught off guard by the simplicity of the request, and hadn't even thought about refusing.

Then Richter had watched as the younger man talked with Hardcastle on the phone. He had seen relief replace the fear that had filled McCormick's eyes, and he was forced to admit that he had incorrectly assumed that McCormick's fear had been for himself. And he had expected McCormick to tell the judge about their arrangement, but he had not. In fact, the entire conversation seemed bent upon reassuring Hardcastle. It made perfect sense—Hardcastle was the one being held hostage—but it had been…unexpected.

And now, he watched as McCormick fought back his tears and stared at a silent phone. Until this moment, it would never have occurred to him that the young man could care so much for the judge.

Almost ten minutes elapsed before the phone rang again, seeming unusually loud in the quiet room. McCormick jumped and reached for the receiver, but hesitated before lifting it from the cradle. Richter could tell he was preparing himself for the worst.

"Judge?" he said hopefully into the mouthpiece.

"No," Lattimer replied, "it's me."

"Ricky. Is he…?" McCormick realized he couldn't finish the sentence.

"He's fine," Lattimer answered harshly. "No thanks to him."

McCormick felt his hopes rise slightly. "What happened?"

"Damn fool tried to break out. He took a bullet in the leg, but he'll be fine."

"I want to talk to him," McCormick demanded.

"We've done that part already, Mark. Now it's time to finish the business at hand."

"If you want your stuff back, Ricky, then this _is_ the business at hand. Let me talk to him. Now."

After a few seconds, Hardcastle's voice was on the line again. "Hey, kiddo." Weaker now, but alive.

McCormick found himself pinching the bridge of his nose to stop the tears that were threatening to spill. The last two days had certainly taken their toll. "Judge." Every ounce of relief could be heard in the single word. "What happened?"

"I was just trying to give you back some options, but I guess it didn't work too well."

"Are you okay? You don't sound too okay."

"Nah, I'm fine. It's just a flesh wound." He didn't tell McCormick that the hired gunmen had been less than pleased with him, and had vented some of their frustration as they bound him for the journey.

"God, Judge, you scared me to death. I don't know what was running through that donkey head of yours, but can you just let it be? We can get through this if you'll just trust me, all right?"

"Yeah, all right. We'll do it your way this time."

McCormick smiled. "Glad to see there's some sense left in your head. Now, let me talk to Ricky so I can get you out of there."

Lattimer was back on the phone immediately. "That wasn't my fault, Mark."

"I don't care whose fault it was," McCormick answered unsympathetically, "I just want him out of there."

"Fine," Lattimer replied. "Let's just get down to business, because I still need this trade to happen at six."

"The sooner the better," McCormick agreed. "Where?"

"About a mile north of Topanga Beach. There's a small, old port."

"Yeah, I know the place."

"Good. There's two warehouses there; we'll be in number two."

"All right, listen, Ricky. How do you expect me and the judge to get out?"

"We'll just trade cars. Hardcastle will already be nice and comfortable."

"Nope, not gonna work. I don't care about the cars, a trade is fine, but I want to see the judge out and about before you get a single piece of your merchandise."

"He really shouldn't be walking around too much right now," Lattimer pointed out.

"Either I see the judge alive and kicking, or I don't stop. I'll drive right on over to the nearest police station, and while I'm there, I'll give Mr. Pedane a call to tell him who really had his car boosted."

"All right, you've made your point. We'll put him on display for you."

"Good. I'll see you at six." McCormick disconnected the line and immediately picked up the radio.

"Frank, he's okay, but we've gotta move. The meet is still on for six. It's an old loading dock just north of Topanga Beach; warehouse number two. I don't really know the layout of the place, but I'm sure you guys will figure something out." McCormick could hear Harper on another radio giving instructions to his men. "Frank, I'll be driving an old blue Chevelle. I don't know what Lattimer is coming in, but then we're just going to trade vehicles. And make sure there's an ambulance around. Hardcastle got shot in the leg. He says he's okay, but he didn't sound too good." Mark heard Harper relay his final instruction.

"Okay, Mark, I think we're set. The troops are rolling and they should be in place soon. We'll be cutting it close, but I think we'll be fine."

"I know it will be. Listen, Frank, one other thing. I ran into Rudolph Richter today, and he's going to be helping us out, too. He's in a green Buick sedan, so just make sure your men know he's one of the good guys."

Richter looked at him speculatively. He had expected to have to alert Harper himself.

"Okay," Harper answered, puzzled. He sent the word out, and then came back to McCormick. "Anything else?"

"Nope, that's it. I'm gonna roll, and I'll touch base when I reach Topanga." He set the radio aside again.

"All right, Detective," he said, turning his attention back to Richter and raising his hand. "If you'll remove this bracelet, we'll get this show on the road."

Richter rounded the desk and fished the key out of his pocket. "I'm glad he's okay," he said as he unlocked the restraint and placed them back in his pocket.

"Me, too," McCormick answered shortly as he stood. "Oh, and by the way, please don't follow too closely. Ricky is already going to be jumpy because of Hardcastle's little stunt. I don't want to blow this over something stupid."

Richter examined him closely for a long moment, then spoke. "I had assumed you would want me to go first to ensure there was no appearance of being followed."

McCormick stared at him in surprise. "Well, yeah," he stammered, "that would be my first choice. But I didn't think… Well, I mean, I just assumed… I just wasn't sure it would work out that way," he finally finished.

"Are you going anywhere besides Topanga Beach?" Richter asked.

"No, sir. Nothing could keep me away."

Richter laughed slightly. "I think I'm beginning to believe that. I'll see you there." He strode out the door without further comment, and McCormick heard the Buick fire up and head off down the drive. After a few minutes, he climbed into the Chevelle and pointed her south on the PCH.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

As McCormick approached the exit for Topanga Beach, he grabbed the radio off the passenger seat. "All right, Frank, I'm going to be there in just a couple of minutes. Are you guys ready?"

"We're set, Mark. Richter checked in a few minutes ago, and he's in place, too. Are you gonna be okay?"

"Yep, things are going to be fine. I'm gonna switch to full transmission now, and hopefully this will all be over before anyone wants to search me. Just remember, Frank, I'm trusting you to get him out of there." McCormick flipped the switch on the handset that allowed the device to serve as a non-stop transmitter, and stuffed it securely inside his jacket. Soon, he reached his exit and turned off the highway.

McCormick drove slowly down the deserted road, his eyes searching for the police cars. Not that he expected to see them. He pulled through the open gate, wondering briefly if anyone really ever heeded NO TRESPASSING signs. He rolled past the first warehouse on the dock, noting that all the doors were closed, even though it was clearly abandoned.

He pulled up to the second building, which had loading doors open at either end. Shadows filled every corner of the large, open space, but McCormick could tell there was another vehicle at the other end. He drove in slowly and flipped on his headlights.

"I see him," he said calmly as he made out Hardcastle's shape in the glare of the low beams. "They're in a late model Chevy, four doors, red. Looks like Ricky and the same two guys who came to the house. I don't see anyone else. They've all got handguns; there's no sign of any other weapons. But, Frank, let's not forget that I'm delivering them an arsenal."

He stopped the car about ten yards from the other, put it in neutral, set the parking brake, and opened the door. McCormick pulled himself from the car, but he stayed behind the open door, and his hand didn't leave the wheel.

"Judge?" he called out, "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, McCormick."

"You see, Mark," Lattimer shouted. "I am a man of my word."

"Go around to the other side of the car, Hardcastle, and get in," McCormick directed. He saw Lattimer put out a restraining hand.

"I don't think you're the one giving the orders around here, Mark."

"Ricky, if you think I'm going to turn this stuff over to you while your goons still have their guns pointed at his head, you're crazy. He's handcuffed and in no condition to run; he's not going anywhere. But I want him safe."

Lattimer yielded to the logic and removed his hand from Hardcastle's arm. The judge rounded the car as quickly as his leg would allow and crawled into the passenger seat.

"Before you move, Mark, I'm sending one of my guys to check the trunk."

"Fair enough," McCormick replied with a slight grin, "but I hope you have a key; I had to pick it."

As it turned out, the other guy had to pick it, too, but he was proficient and made quick work of it. "Looks good, Ricky," he called back across the building.

"What about the files?" Lattimer asked.

"Passenger seat," McCormick said to the guy at the trunk. He watched him warily as the guy opened the door and grabbed the folders.

"All right, Ricky," McCormick called as the goon backed away from the car, "let's finish this up. I need you guys away from that car." He climbed back into the Chevelle as the two men moved away from their car. He hit the gas and made a beeline for the sedan. Just before reaching the other car, McCormick jerked the wheel hard to the right and stomped on the brake, coming to a stop right next to the driver's side door. He shut off the Chevelle, pulled off the jumper wire he'd been using for ignition, and moved quickly to the other car.

"We're done here, Ricky," he shouted as he started up the car, "don't try to follow us." He glanced at his passenger. "Almost home, Judge," he said with a grin. He slammed the car into drive and stomped on the accelerator.

"Now, Frank!" he yelled as they cleared the warehouse. He drove the car to the far end of the loading area—leaving plenty of room for the police vehicles that were converging on the warehouse from every direction—and slammed on the brakes. "And get that ambulance over here!" he shouted as he jumped out of the car and ran around to the other side. He yanked open the passenger door, helped Hardcastle out of his seat, and pulled the older man into a bear hug.

"Judge, I am so glad to see you! Are you all right?" McCormick released the older man and held him at arm's length. "Jeez, you look like hell, what were you thinking, anyway, I told you I was going to get you out, God, I can't believe they hurt you, I am so sorry, I never meant for any of this to happen—"

"McCormick! I'm fine!" Hardcastle finally had to raise his voice to stop McCormick's babbling, but there was no anger in the tone. He looked around as the police completed their arrests. "You brought the cavalry," he said, the pride obvious in his voice.

"Well, yeah, of course," McCormick said, grinning. "Isn't that the way you taught me…set 'em up and knock 'em down?"

Hardcastle's face split into a toothy smile. "Now you're cookin'!"

McCormick couldn't wipe the stupid grin from his face. "Judge, let's get you over to the paramedics."

"Do you think we could get these things off first?" Hardcastle asked, wriggling his hands in McCormick's face.

"Jeez, sorry, Judge." McCormick pulled the radio from his jacket. "Frank, can you come get these cuffs off him, please?"

"At your command," Harper replied from behind McCormick.

McCormick spun around and clapped the lieutenant on the back. "Thanks, Frank…for everything."

"My pleasure, Mark," Harper replied as he removed the handcuffs from around Hardcastle's wrists. He was wearing his own dopey grin as he looked at the two men. "Anything to keep Tonto and the Lone Ranger together." Leaning close to the judge momentarily, he whispered, "He did good, Milt."

Hardcastle winked at him. "I never doubted it."

"Okay," McCormick said as he took the judge by the arm, "time to get you taken care of. Let's get you situated with the medics and then I need to tell you something."

"What? Gonna tell me you deserve a raise now?"

McCormick laughed; it was good to have him back. "No, Hardcase, not a raise. Though we might be able to negotiate some kind of bonus plan..."

Hardcastle snorted as he allowed McCormick to help him climb into the back of the ambulance.

"You believe this kid, Frank? One of _his_ friends goes whacko and kidnaps me, and I'm supposed to give him a bonus just because he pulls me out? Apparently he's forgotten that I specifically told him not to pay this particular ransom."

"Funny you should mention that, Judge," McCormick began, but he broke off to let the paramedic start his examination. While the medics worked with Hardcastle, McCormick pulled Harper aside. "Do you think you can ride to the hospital with him, Frank?"

Harper looked at him quizzically. "Of course, but what about you? You're coming, too, right?"

"It's kind of complicated," McCormick answered slowly. "I'll explain it in a minute when the judge is done." He walked back to the open doors of the ambulance, ensuring Harper wouldn't ask more questions. Also, he wanted to stay close for as long as he could. He laughed when he heard the almost inevitable argument going on inside the ambulance.

"No, I don't need to go to the hospital," Hardcastle was insisting.

"Judge, don't argue with the man, just—" He broke off as he saw Richter approaching. "Just let them take care of you," he finally finished the thought as the detective joined their group.

"You ready?" Richter asked.

McCormick nodded, and turned so that the officer could secure the handcuffs.

"What's going on?" Hardcastle and Harper spoke almost in unison.

"This is kind of what I wanted to talk to you about, Judge, but we'll talk later. Frank's going to ride with you to the hospital. We'll talk when the doctors say you can leave, okay?"

"No, McCormick," Hardcastle replied firmly, "it absolutely is _not_ okay. We can talk now. And, Frank, get those cuffs off him."

McCormick took a step back away from his friends. "Don't worry. Frank, you promised you'd take care of him. I need you to do that for me. You know where I'll be when he's done at the hospital. I'll explain everything, Judge, but later. Just let them take care of you. I need you to be okay."

Without further comment, he allowed Richter to lead him away.

00000

McCormick looked at his hands as he lay on the worn-down mattress. The booking process was tedious and he hated how the fingerprint ink stayed on practically forever. Such a small thing to be obsessing about, but that seemed to be the only thing his mind was capable of holding on to at the moment. That, and the fact that Hardcastle was safe. Nothing else mattered.

He squirmed around on the bunk. The gatehouse would've been better, but he was exhausted after the past couple of days, and even this jail cot would probably seem comfortable tonight. But he didn't want to sleep yet. He knew Hardcastle would be here tonight—regular visiting hours weren't likely to stop the judge—and he had no idea how he was going to explain any of this.

As he lay on the bed, examining his hands, his mind drifted back to the night he had accepted Hardcastle's crazy offer of partnership. So many similarities: lumpy mattress; scratchy denim clothes; felony conviction hanging over his head. It had never crossed his mind at the time that the judge really _was_ making him the deal of a lifetime. He smiled to himself.

"No regrets, Hardcase," he said under his breath.

"McCormick! Ready for exit."

The guard's voice startled him out of his reverie, but McCormick knew the drill. He dropped down off the bunk and waited against the back wall of the cell, hands open and at his sides. He had assumed Hardcastle would come here —like the other time—but he would never turn down a chance to be out of the cell. McCormick stepped out of the cell in front of the waiting guard and turned away, enabling the guard to stay two steps behind as they walked. God, he hated that he fell into the routine so readily.

The guard opened the door to a small interrogation room, motioned his prisoner inside, and then pulled the door closed. McCormick had expected to see Hardcastle, but Frank Harper waited at the table.

"Frank, where's the judge? Is he okay?"

Harper motioned him toward a chair. "He's fine, Mark. The hospital cleaned him up and patched up his leg, then let him go. Now, he's talking to your buddy, Lattimer, trying to convince him to testify against Pedane."

McCormick chuckled. "Should've known. He'll probably get him to go for it, too." He sat down opposite the lieutenant. "So, what's up?"

Harper shook his head. "Milt wants to talk to you. He asked me to get you up here. That's all I know."

McCormick raised his eyebrow quizzically. "I doubt that."

"Well…I also know that he's pretty pissed. He's accustomed to getting his way, you know. What he wants right now is to get you released, but you've made that fairly difficult."

"You should take him home, Frank. He needs to take it easy for a while."

"You think that's an argument I can win?" Harper demanded.

"Entice him with a John Wayne film and some hot popcorn," McCormick shot back.

Harper opened his mouth to retort, but the door suddenly flew open, saving him the trouble.

"You signed a confession?" Hardcastle demanded as he slammed the door behind him.

McCormick looked around and laughed at the sight. Hardcastle still wore the same tattered sweat clothes from yesterday morning, though the right pant leg had been cut off to an almost indecent length to accommodate the bulky bandage around his thigh, and he held a wooden cane to help support his weight. His left wrist was covered in a thin bandage, protecting the skin that had been broken by the handcuff; there were several stitches above the judge's left eye; and both eyes held the particular glaze that could only be achieved with really good pain medication.

"This isn't a laughing matter, McCormick," the judge responded angrily.

"No," McCormick agreed. "But I gotta tell you, Hardcase, you come in here with all your huffing and puffing and hobbling around on a cane, it sure does lighten the mood just a bit."

Hardcastle stared at the young man, his eyes ice cold. McCormick took the hint.

"Okay, Judge," he said, rising from his seat. "You're not in a joking mood. I got it." He indicated his vacated chair. "Sit down, and we'll talk."

Hardcastle limped over to the offered chair, glad to be off his feet. He looked across the table. "Frank, could you give us the room?"

Harper rose immediately. "I'll be in my office, Milt. I'll drive you home whenever you're ready."

Hardcastle nodded. "Thanks."

As Harper left the room, McCormick rounded the table to sit opposite Hardcastle. "Scary as it is, Judge, you look a lot better than before."

Hardcastle ignored the comment. "You signed a confession, kid. What were you thinking?"

"I wanted to tell you about it earlier, but there wasn't time."

"That's not an answer."

"There isn't an answer, Judge, except that I did the crime. You're the one always preaching about people taking responsibility for their actions."

"I think this is a slightly different situation, McCormick. What I can't figure is why I'm the one having to point that out. Ordinarily you'd have a list of excuses a mile long. You want to tell me what's really going on? Then, after we straighten that out, we've gotta get you a lawyer down here."

"I have a lawyer, Judge, I talked to him earlier. In fact, he brought good news. He says the only charges being filed are the assault and the weapons possession. Apparently, Citizen Pedane never reported a burglary or a stolen car. And they seem to think traffic violations are superfluous." Mark grinned, hoping the judge would lighten up. It didn't work.

"I know about the charges, McCormick," Hardcastle replied, exasperated, "but when I said you needed a lawyer, I wasn't talking about some kid from the PD's office. I mean someone who can help you out of this hole you've dug for yourself. In the meantime, I'll talk to some more people and see what I can work out."

McCormick shook his head. "There's nothing to work out, Hardcastle. The arraignment is scheduled for tomorrow, and my attorney says we can squeeze a sentencing hearing in early next week."

"Now, see, that's exactly what I'm talking about. You're already talking about sentencing and we haven't even had a trial yet. What is going on with you?"

"There's not going to be a trial, Judge. I signed the confession because I'm pleading guilty."

Hardcastle gaped at him. "No, you're not," he said firmly. "Even with your confession, this is winnable. All sorts of extenuating circumstances going on here, McCormick. Besides, I still plan on getting these charges dropped."

"You're not listening to me, Judge," McCormick complained.

"Actually," Hardcastle corrected, "I _am_ listening…_you_ are not talking. And, in case you've forgotten, this whole mess began because you didn't come clean with me about something to begin with."

McCormick winced. Sometimes the truth really did hurt. "I am sorry about everything, Judge," he said softly. "And you're right, it was my fault. That's why I had to get you out, no matter what."

"What—exactly—do you mean, 'no matter what'?" the judge asked slowly.

"Oh, all right." McCormick threw up his hands in exasperation. "I got sloppy and I got caught. There was no way I could go to lockup before the exchange, so we made a trade: a guilty plea for a couple more hours of freedom."

"Are you telling me the confession was coerced?" Hardcastle's barely contained anger was about to reach its boiling point.

"No," McCormick insisted, "not coerced. Mutually agreed upon."

The idea was finally sinking in for the judge, and his breath caught. He was not sure if his heart was breaking from guilt or bursting with pride. "You shouldn't have done it, Mark," he said solemnly.

"What was I supposed to do?" McCormick demanded. "Let Lattimer kill you? I don't think so."

"Frank could have worked something out."

"Frank wasn't there."

"Yeah, I've been thinking that maybe I should have a little chat with your friend, Detective Richter."

"No, Hardcastle, you can't be hassling him. He was just doing his job. God, Judge, I almost killed him! He certainly had a right to file charges."

"Don't make excuses for him, McCormick. You know how I feel about dirty cops."

McCormick shook his head again, surprised to find himself defending the detective. "I'm not making excuses, Judge, I'm trying to explain what happened. You know I have a history with Richter. That might have made him a little over-eager, but it doesn't make him dirty." He leaned forward and gazed intently into Hardcastle's eyes. "He didn't have to let me go to the meet, Judge. I will always be grateful that he did."

Hardcastle held his gaze for a long moment, again feeling that strange combination of guilt and pride, and suddenly realized that this was a situation he could not change, no matter how much he wanted it to be different. He swallowed the lump in his throat and spoke. "What can I do for you?"

McCormick smiled gently. "Make sure you find someone else to help you chase down the bad guys. You're not safe on your own."

Hardcastle turned away from his friend's eyes. "Been bringing in the bad guys since before you were born, kiddo," he said thickly. "I certainly don't need a babysitter now."

"No," McCormick agreed as heartily as possible, "of course not."

The men sat in silence for several long moments, each quietly contemplating a future without the other, and each realizing that future would be bleaker than he had imagined.

Determined to end this visit on a lighter note, McCormick finally spoke. "Hey, Hardcase, can you bring me a jacket and tie for tomorrow? I knew this crazy man once who said judges were important people, so I figure I should dress to impress."

Hardcastle glanced at his friend and saw that the laughter in his tone hadn't quite made it to his eyes, but he played along. "Yeah, McCormick, I'll bring them," he answered gruffly, "but don't expect miracles. Remember, I've seen your courthouse routine, and it's not going to carry you that far."

McCormick grinned. "Most people have more of an appreciation for my natural charm and grace than you do, Hardcase. But don't worry, no matter what, you'll always be my favorite judge." He forced himself to stand. Not that he wanted to go back to the cell, but the judge needed to leave. "You need to get some rest now, Judge," he instructed. He started toward the door, but Hardcastle's quiet voice stopped him.

"I haven't had a chance to thank you, Mark. For so many things."

McCormick turned back slowly. "I'd do it all again, Judge," he said honestly. He turned quickly then and crossed to the door, knocking to get the guard's attention, not trusting himself to say anything more.

Hardcastle watched him go and felt a loneliness he had thought forgotten settle deep into his soul.

And in the adjoining room, a lone police detective watched silently.

00000

"You're sure my tie is straight?" McCormick asked for the fifth time. He turned more completely around from the defendant's table so that Hardcastle could get a better look.

"It's fine, McCormick," the judge answered for the fifth time. "Will you quit worrying?"

McCormick grinned slightly. "Well, this is the last time I'm going to be in normal clothes for a few years. I thought it would be nice if I wore them well."

Hardcastle was trying to keep up his end of the light-hearted banter, but the thought of McCormick spending the next ten years behind bars was wearing on his last nerve. The kid was putting on a good show of bravery, but the judge knew that was for his benefit. He must have forgotten who he was dealing with if he truly believed it was working.

"You know, McCormick, you still have time to change your mind—"

"Juuudge," McCormick interrupted, "you promised."

"I know, I'm sorry. But of all the stupid things I've known you to do, this is right up there at the top of the list."

"That's just because I try to keep the _really_ stupid things from you. Trust me, there have been bigger mistakes."

Hardcastle did laugh at that, and they both relaxed a bit. Then the judge saw just a shadow of anger cross the younger man's face, and he turned to see Richter entering the courtroom.

"I guess I should have expected he would be here," McCormick muttered. But he was surprised to see that the detective did not take a seat.

Instead, Richter walked directly to the district attorney, whispered something in her ear, and placed an envelope on the table. Then he turned and left the room.

"That was weird," he commented to Hardcastle. "I would've thought he would stay to gloat."

"I don't know why you won't let me have a little conversation with that young man," Hardcastle complained.

"I appreciate the thought, Judge, but you can't take care of me forever, remember?"

Hardcastle leaned over the railing separating him from McCormick and whispered, "Don't be a smartass, kid."

McCormick laughed lightly, but the bailiff had just entered to call the room to order, so he didn't get a chance to reply. He turned to face the front of the room, and rose from his seat as the bailiff introduced, "The Honorable Leslie Williamson presiding."

"Please be seated," Judge Williamson invited, as she took her seat.

"Mark McCormick," she continued, glancing at the file in front of her, "I understand that you have waived your right to a formal reading of the charges and specifications before this court?"

McCormick stood, buttoning his jacket as he rose. Standing beside his attorney, he addressed the judge. "Yes, Your Honor, that is correct."

"Very well, then, on the charges of aggravated assault and illegal possession of a firearm, how do you plead?"

He took a deep breath. "Guilty."

Williamson looked at him speculatively. "Mr. McCormick, would it surprise you to know that I have a passing familiarity with your recent parole agreement?"

"No, ma'am," McCormick answered uncertainly, "I don't suppose that it would."

"In addition to your plea, would you like to make any other statement concerning these current charges?"

McCormick felt Hardcastle jabbing him in the back, urging him to speak, but he shook his head. "No, thank you, Your Honor. I don't believe that will be necessary."

"You may be seated."

As McCormick regained his seat, he heard Hardcastle muttering, "Never that polite in my court."

McCormick covered his mouth to hide his grin, and turned briefly. "Yeah, I'm kinda sorry about that, Hardcase," he replied quietly.

Williamson had turned her attention to the district attorney. "Does the state have any objections to this plea?"

The D.A., Sara Bell, rose. "No, Your Honor."

"Very well. The court accepts the plea of guilty, and it will be so entered. Let's talk about scheduling for sentencing."

McCormick's public defender rose. "Our only request, Your Honor, is expediency. We will call two witnesses only."

"The state concurs that this matter should be dispatched quickly," Bell added. "In fact," she continued, "we are prepared to make an immediate recommendation."

McCormick leaned toward his attorney. "Sam," he whispered, "what's up?"

"Don't know," he answered as he rose to face the judge. He addressed the court, "We would certainly be interested in hearing the state's recommendation, though we would like to reserve the right to a formal hearing, if necessary."

"Of course," Williamson replied. She motioned for the D.A. to continue.

Bell consulted her notes briefly, then spoke. "The actions leading to Mr. McCormick's latest arrest are of the most serious nature." McCormick felt his heart sink as she continued. "Not only was he in illegal possession of a firearm—not only deadly, but also a clear violation of his parole—but he is guilty of assaulting a police officer in an attempt to prevent the officer from completing his sworn duties. These actions cannot be viewed lightly, as they point to a pattern of behavior that could represent a clear public danger.

"However, the state also recognizes that there were, in fact, extenuating circumstances at work in this instance. We have a statement from the arresting officer indicating that Mr. McCormick was under extreme duress due to the kidnapping of Judge Hardcastle, and that McCormick was subsequently the key figure in securing Hardcastle's release.

"So, while we cannot overlook the gravity of these charges, we do believe some leniency would be appropriate. Therefore, we respectfully recommend a sentence of not less than five years."

McCormick didn't allow his emotions to reach his face. Five years was a long time. Truthfully, he had expected twice that, but knowing it was coming and hearing someone say it out loud were two very different things. He leaned over to confer with his attorney.

"I'm thinking that might be the best offer we're going to hear," he said.

"Quite possibly," Sam agreed, "but I still think we should request a hearing. Let Hardcastle and Harper testify on your behalf; we might get them down to three."

McCormick nodded. "You're the expert."

Sam rose to his feet, but before he could speak, D.A. Bell continued.

"Your Honor, we have further recommendations for the court's consideration."

Sam dropped back to his seat and shrugged at his client. "Let's see what she has to say."

"You still have the floor, Counselor," Williamson said.

"The state would like to make a recommendation as to the disposition of the sentence, as well. In lieu of incarceration, we would like to suggest probation for the full term of sentence, with Milton Hardcastle serving as special probationary officer. Assuming, of course, that Judge Hardcastle agrees."

McCormick didn't move; couldn't trust himself to speak to Sam; couldn't trust himself even to turn to look at Hardcastle. He could only sit, waiting to find out how this would end. He was pretty sure he must be dreaming, but given the last few days, it wasn't such a bad dream, and he wouldn't mind staying in it a while longer.

"Judge Hardcastle?" Williamson motioned him to his feet.

"Yes, Your Honor?"

"I mentioned earlier that I was aware of Mr. McCormick's arrangement. Rather unorthodox, to be sure, but the reports I have heard have been positive. Are you willing to continue your custodial responsibilities for an additional five years?"

"Yes, Judge Williamson, I am," Hardcastle answered without hesitation.

"And you can guarantee his continued presence? And his behavior?"

Hardcastle chose his words carefully. "His presence, absolutely. As for his actions…well, of course, he was in my custody this past week, and yet, here we are. So guaranteeing perfect behavior might be unrealistic. What I can guarantee, though, Your Honor, is his motivation. McCormick is committed to keeping his nose clean; he is not looking to wind up back in prison."

"And yet," Williamson replied, "as you pointed out, Judge, he was in your custody at the time of these incidents. Perhaps he is not as committed as you believe?" She turned her attention to McCormick. "Mr. McCormick, rather than letting the judge speak for you, perhaps you could answer my question yourself."

McCormick rose slowly, and smiled his most charming smile. "I think the judge said it pretty well when he said I didn't want to go back to prison. I'm just trying to keep myself out of trouble as best I can; get my life back on track."

"You did just enter a guilty plea to earn yourself another felony conviction," Williamson pointed out. "So, just where does your commitment lie?"

McCormick only hesitated a moment. After all, if it was a choice between embarrassment or prison. . . "To him," he answered quietly, jerking his thumb to indicate Hardcastle. "My commitment is to him. It's why I will be here as long as he says I have to be; it's why I will do whatever it is he needs me to do; and it is why we are here today. He could have died... I did what was necessary to ensure that didn't happen."

Williamson studied him intently. "Thank you for your candor," she said with a small smile. She looked back at Bell. "Any further recommendations from the state?"

"No, Your Honor."

"Very well. Does the defense wish to disposition this case today, or do we need to schedule another hearing?"

Sam looked over at McCormick, who simply nodded. "We are prepared to accept disposition today, Judge."

"Okay. Will the defendant please rise?"

Again, McCormick stood with Sam.

"Mark McCormick, you are hereby sentenced to five years for assault committed on Rudolph Richter and illegal possession of a firearm. This court finds that a probationary sentence for the full five years will be served in the custody of Milton Hardcastle in lieu of incarceration. Failure to abide by the terms of probation will result in the remainder of the sentence being served in a maximum-security institution. Do you understand this sentence, Mr. McCormick?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Very well, I thank you all. Good luck to you, Mr. McCormick. We are adjourned."

McCormick heard the gavel pound, and heard the bailiff instruct the room to stand when Williamson left the bench, but it hadn't really hit him that it was over. He felt Hardcastle's hand on his shoulder. When he turned, the judge pulled him into a massive hug, which McCormick gladly returned. He could feel himself trembling and welcomed the chance to compose himself. The judge seemed to understand, and tightened his grip.

"I've got you, kid." The gentle words whispered into his ear calmed McCormick immediately.

"Thanks, Judge," he answered as he pulled away from Hardcastle. His voice regained some of its usual strength. "Really. Thanks for everything."

Hardcastle smiled. "All in all, you're cheaper than a maintenance man."

McCormick laughed. "You got that right, Hardcase, but only because you've found a loophole around the slave labor laws."

McCormick turned his attention to the attorney. "Sam, thanks for your help."

"I didn't really do much," Sam answered as he shook the other man's hand, "but I'm glad it worked out for you. Good luck to you, Mark." He grabbed his briefcase off the table and walked from the room.

McCormick scooted himself from behind the table, but the D.A. stopped him before he joined the judge. "Mr. McCormick?"

He turned back to face her. "What can I do for you, Counselor?" He felt the judge move up behind him, offering silent support.

"I have something for you." She handed him an envelope.

He met her eyes. "Thanks."

She smiled slightly. "Seemed like a win-win solution. We don't get that very often."

"No, I don't guess you do."

She shook his offered hand. "I hope it works out for you."

He watched her walk out the door, and caught Hardcastle watching him. "What?" he asked with a grin.

The judge just shook his head. "Nothing. What's with the envelope?"

McCormick shrugged and ripped it open. He read aloud:

_I never expected you to agree, McCormick. I sure as hell never expected you to keep your promise. People don't surprise me often, but surprise isn't always a bad thing. __I thought it might be best to leave the watching up to the judge now._

_—Richter_

He looked at Hardcastle in surprise. "Unbelievable," he said.

"Oh, I don't know," Hardcastle answered. "You do have that natural charm and grace, after all."

McCormick grinned at him. "Absolutely."

"All right, kiddo. Things are starting to pile up back at the house. What do you say we grab some lunch before we get you back to your chores? I might even give you a little help today so you can be finished in time for tonight's movie."

McCormick clapped him on the back as they headed out of the courtroom. "Now, Hardcase, that _really_ sounds like the deal of a lifetime."


End file.
